Broken Girl

I hate them. I hate them. I hate teachers. I hate humans. I hate this world. She hates everything, including herself. Today she still dragged her scarred body home, with bruises on her face, wet hair and brown school uniform. I stood in front of the apartment door for five minutes, listening to the sound of glass coming from the house. She pushed the door open, and a beer bottle flew towards her. You could clearly see the bottle hitting the wooden door behind her, making a crisp shattering sound, and broken glass scattered on the ground.