March 18th: The chicken was dead

March 18th:

My father brought home a chicken this morning. I knew that he would have a party with his friends. When I went home after school, I saw that the chicken was dead. A friend of my father killed it. Blood is on the front yard. R.I.P Chicken. I will thank you when I eat you tonight.

This week, there were four days that my father told his friends to come over. I hate when that happen. Of course I can't say anything about this because he will get angry. I am nineteen but I am still useless. I couldn't say anything when he hit mom. I could only cry when he said bad things about mom.