It's 4:30 in the morning. I can't sleep because my "brother" has gone out again and now he's calling my "parents". I've begun sleeping with a pocket knife under my pillow because I fear for my life. I wish I had a lock on my door, the way my dad does. I worry for my mother; she's the one who's going to get the little bastard. A man asked me today why I didn't own a gun; I told him that I didn't have an answer. It's sad when you have to arm yourself at bedtime not because you're scared of someone outside, but someone who's sleeping just down the hallway. Mother told me today that it was going to be me or him- that if he stayed here, that she would move me out, because she feared for me. I wonder if she means that. I wonder why they keep "helping" him; they only hurt him more by bringing him home. It's gone beyond crack, too. It seems more like meth now- he's so angry and mean. More like he was when he hurt my mother a long time ago that wasn't so long ago. I'm sick of living like this. sick of worrying about my safety, my mother's, my father's. That asshole has no care in the world for anyone. I need a haven, a sanctuary. there's got to be something better.