As soon as I got out of bed, a wave of pain shot through my right thigh.

I've been clean for months, but yesterday night, all that came crashing down.

"Chaerin-ah, bring me a beer," my father called out as I enter the kitchen. It was only Saturday night but he was already drinking. My father had never had a drinking addiction before, but ever since he had to juggle two jobs to stabilize the family, drinking was his way of releasing stress. "T-There's no more," my voice shook as I enter the family room. The scariest time is when he wants his drinks. If he don't get them, he would throw a fit.

"Then go get them," he said through gritted teeth.

"But I don't have an id for it, I’m not old enough."

"Excuses after excuses after excuses. God damn it, Lee Chaerin! Just lie! Use your brain for once! Why do you have to be so stupid? If I had a son right now I would've gotten my drink within a snap of my fingers, but I ended up getting a brainless girl instead. Why can't you be a boy, Chaerin? A boy was all I asked for."

"I'll go get it," my mom suddenly popped in, "Chaerin ah, go to your room."

Hours later and I was still wide awake.

'Why can't you be a boy?' It's not my first time hearing this from my father, and it probably won't be my last. But no matter how many times it has already been said, it still hurts every time. Every time it's repeated, I feel more and more unwanted.

Would things really have changed if I was a boy? Would life have been better? Was I really just an unwanted child?

Without thinking, I grabbed a paperclip that was laying on the ground and forced one end to straighten out as I started cutting my right thigh over and over again, re-opening old wounds as blood seeps out of the open crack on my skin. Like every other time, it got less and less painful with each .

Cutting myself was a bad habit, but at the same time, it was really the only thing that worked. Although there's Bommie, I didn't know how to talk about it with her. She has her own things to stress about and mines are probably only a fraction of her stress. Why add more? Soon enough, I've came to conclusion that some things are probably just better to be dealt with alone. 

It was early Sunday morning, the day everyone usually sleeps in and rest before working tomorrow, but I had to get out of the house. I needed to at least avoid my father’s hangover period. As quickly and as quietly as I could, with my right thigh still throbbing in pain, I