“My name is Marty. I’m 15. I’m in my last year of school. School is ok. I have friends. We laugh. We have fun. I have exams but I find it hard to revise. I love music. I love singing and I love dancing. I like a lot of things...but I don’t like home.
I really don’t like home.
I hate home!
I hate going home.
I hate being at home.
I hate even thinking about home.

No one really knows because I laugh when I’m not at home. Probably because I’m out and don’t have to think about home. But when the school day comes to an end, I remember home. I remember that I have to go back there. I think of other options, if there’s anywhere else I can go...but there isn’t. I have to face the music. I say bye to my friends. I head home. Friday’s are the hardest. I know I have two days of hell ahead of me.

I turn my key in the door, there’s silence. It’s ok. Everyone will be in a good mood...for a while. We might even laugh, watch TV and do the nice things families do together. But then, it gets later.
Dad comes home.
He drinks and we get in his way.
Mum isn’t well. She has problems and is on some pills.
Dad finds that hard. She has these silly rituals. They annoy him.

Me and my sister try to pretend it isn’t happening. He isn’t hitting her. He says she deserves it. Glass smashes. We get caught in the middle, used as a tool.

‘If you touch me, I’ll slap her. I mean it! I’m not crazy, if you keep saying I am, I’ll hit her, I’ll hit her hard!!’
Empty threats. Or maybe not so empty.
It gets later.
There’s bruises now and blood.
The Police might show up.
I like it when that happens. Always makes me think that’ll be the end of it. But it never is.

Dad gets comfortable again, he apologises but then the drink takes over. It’s not him he says, that’s what mum says too. To not blame him but the drink. I don’t see the drink though.
I see him.
Punching and beating her and then starting on me.
My little sister cries. I act tough. ‘I have to’, I tell myself. My sister needs to see me strong and my Dad can’t know that he can break me. And if I start crying, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.
Best to keep it all in, yep that’s the way.
So, that’s my home.

I never understand why people rush home from school. I don’t.

I wish there was some1 I could tell.
Some1 who knew me.
Some1 who saw me.
Some1 who could see things aren’t ok.
That’s all I need...to know some1 cares...’

Let’s BE that some1
Let’s BE the iCare Revolution...