As My Freedom Takes Me

Everything in my room is cast in various shades of blue. The edges of things are dulled except for the diagonal ray of moonlight that has crept in and spread itself across my wall. I don't know what time it is, but it feels like morning is a safe distance away. I'm glad. It's getting colder now. I can feel the chill pressing through my window. If I'm going to do this, I'll have to do it soon.
The rude sun has once again invited itself in. Its boastful rays have drenched everything and chased my peaceful moon away. Sharp little sun-lit fingers painfully pry at my eyelids. I can hear her downstairs. Heavy, sloppy, slipper dragging footsteps make their way from the downstairs bathroom towards the kitchen. A jumble of clinking pans and irritated mumbles force their noise into my ears. I pull my legs from under the warmth of my blankets to meet the cruel bare floor. It insults my feet with a chill most displeasing. Still the clamor continues angrily below me as my eyes blur then re-adjust. She'll be coming up here soon.
My finger outlines a yellowing bruise on my inner left knee. It's been there for almost a week now. I hate it. Pressing a thumb deep into the center, I find it doesn't really hurt anymore.
Creeping up through the vent is the unmistakable smell of burnt toast. I can picture her sitting there - smothering that chair with her mass - swollen gut pressed hard against the edge of the table - chubby greased fingers fumble clumsily through the morning paper as her jaw rotates in gluttonous pleasure. Black crumbs scatter around on the table - a few cling to the edges of her buttered mouth. I shake the image with a revolted shiver. I HATE HER and every crease that has become her face. I hate it. The memory of her scornfully etched face. Her destroyed face. She has a destroyed face.