Status: Will be updating as soon as possible.
I'm Just A Kid
Chapter-1
Hes the reason for my pain. I blame him.
Age 3 months. Situation. Mother and Father, fighting. Father, abusing. Me, crying.
Father has the drink in one hand and the other in the shape of a fist. Words are coming from his mouth, obviously causing Mother grief. She's crying and starts to walk away; Father releases his hand from a fist and pulls her back and immediately slaps her with his empty hand. She falls to the ground and cries harder. The bruises are there, the tears have been shed. You can tell that she's tired, she doesn't even bother to try and get up... she's already given up.
Age 5 months. Put up for adoption.
Age 3 years. I'm adopted. I've lived with this one family for as long as I can remember, I don't know I'm adopted. I won't until about the 4th grade. They love and treat me like family; I don't even know what adoption means. I have a half brother and a half sister. They're living with me, the people that take care of me thought it would be better if we were all in one home. I'm the youngest in the family, and my new mom is a foster mom, she takes in other foster kids. That's partly why I'm living with her, she has experience with the “troubled” kids.
Sometime in the future.-
Mother is gone at work. It's exactly 5:08 pm. I should make my Father and I dinner. He gets home from work at about 5:30, so I'm home alone until he arrives, Mother gets home at 6:30pm, and leaves at about 10am.
My half sister and brother moved out, both turned 18 and couldn't wait to get out of the house... if only they knew what they were really leaving.
I got my veggie burger from the freezer down the hallway, and grabbed the ground beef to make a regular hamburger for Father. I grabbed a pan from the drawer under the oven and put it on the stove; I turned the heat on 6.
I looked out the window to see Fathers truck coming up our long steep driveway. He wasn't supposed to be home for another 18 minutes. I didn't know what type of mood he was in, Father could be a ticking time bomb while he was driving home from work, and then explode when he walked in the door. Or either he could be nice, and whenever that was... he was a little too nice.
I looked down at my shirt, making sure it wasn't low cut or a tank top. I was wearing my over sized tie-die shirt that my sister had made for me. I usually wore it to bed; I hadn't bothered to get dressed that morning, I wasn't leaving the house and it was a Sunday. Just make it until Mother gets home, You can do this. I told myself. I took a deep breath and flipped his hamburger. I heard him slam his truck door. I gasped. I wanted to hide but I knew that would make him even more mad, make him crazy.
I kept my cool and tried to act natural, like I wouldn't be inappropriately touched by my own Father, like he wouldn't kiss as if I was his wife, like he wasn't abusive.
He opened the front door and I heard him take off his work boots. I wish Mother was home; I wish these things didn't happen. I flipped the hamburger again, and he walked into the kitchen, he stopped in the doorway when he saw me... alone. “Where's your Mother?” he asked as he set down his work bag on the counter by the sink. “At work.” I replied quietly, turning off the stove. I took the pan off of the stove and set it on the cutting board. “There's your dinner.” I told him as I walked past him and into my room. I grabbed my pants from my closet and closed the door, I tried to get dressed fast, I didn't want to give Father any time to open the door. I let out a sigh of relief when I finished getting dressed. I opened the door and walked into the washroom. I grabbed my Nike hi-tops and tried to be quiet, not give him the chance to ask “Where are you going.” I quietly opened the door and ran down the trail to my grandmas house, not caring if I slammed the door shut.
One less night of my life filled with misery.
Age 3 months. Situation. Mother and Father, fighting. Father, abusing. Me, crying.
Father has the drink in one hand and the other in the shape of a fist. Words are coming from his mouth, obviously causing Mother grief. She's crying and starts to walk away; Father releases his hand from a fist and pulls her back and immediately slaps her with his empty hand. She falls to the ground and cries harder. The bruises are there, the tears have been shed. You can tell that she's tired, she doesn't even bother to try and get up... she's already given up.
Age 5 months. Put up for adoption.
Age 3 years. I'm adopted. I've lived with this one family for as long as I can remember, I don't know I'm adopted. I won't until about the 4th grade. They love and treat me like family; I don't even know what adoption means. I have a half brother and a half sister. They're living with me, the people that take care of me thought it would be better if we were all in one home. I'm the youngest in the family, and my new mom is a foster mom, she takes in other foster kids. That's partly why I'm living with her, she has experience with the “troubled” kids.
Sometime in the future.-
Mother is gone at work. It's exactly 5:08 pm. I should make my Father and I dinner. He gets home from work at about 5:30, so I'm home alone until he arrives, Mother gets home at 6:30pm, and leaves at about 10am.
My half sister and brother moved out, both turned 18 and couldn't wait to get out of the house... if only they knew what they were really leaving.
I got my veggie burger from the freezer down the hallway, and grabbed the ground beef to make a regular hamburger for Father. I grabbed a pan from the drawer under the oven and put it on the stove; I turned the heat on 6.
I looked out the window to see Fathers truck coming up our long steep driveway. He wasn't supposed to be home for another 18 minutes. I didn't know what type of mood he was in, Father could be a ticking time bomb while he was driving home from work, and then explode when he walked in the door. Or either he could be nice, and whenever that was... he was a little too nice.
I looked down at my shirt, making sure it wasn't low cut or a tank top. I was wearing my over sized tie-die shirt that my sister had made for me. I usually wore it to bed; I hadn't bothered to get dressed that morning, I wasn't leaving the house and it was a Sunday. Just make it until Mother gets home, You can do this. I told myself. I took a deep breath and flipped his hamburger. I heard him slam his truck door. I gasped. I wanted to hide but I knew that would make him even more mad, make him crazy.
I kept my cool and tried to act natural, like I wouldn't be inappropriately touched by my own Father, like he wouldn't kiss as if I was his wife, like he wasn't abusive.
He opened the front door and I heard him take off his work boots. I wish Mother was home; I wish these things didn't happen. I flipped the hamburger again, and he walked into the kitchen, he stopped in the doorway when he saw me... alone. “Where's your Mother?” he asked as he set down his work bag on the counter by the sink. “At work.” I replied quietly, turning off the stove. I took the pan off of the stove and set it on the cutting board. “There's your dinner.” I told him as I walked past him and into my room. I grabbed my pants from my closet and closed the door, I tried to get dressed fast, I didn't want to give Father any time to open the door. I let out a sigh of relief when I finished getting dressed. I opened the door and walked into the washroom. I grabbed my Nike hi-tops and tried to be quiet, not give him the chance to ask “Where are you going.” I quietly opened the door and ran down the trail to my grandmas house, not caring if I slammed the door shut.
One less night of my life filled with misery.