Sequel: Nothing Is Ever Perfect ›
These Lives Of Ours.
I'm getting out of here
I woke up in the same bed as yesterday. It was a welcome change as most of the time I didn’t know where I’d be sleeping from night to night. I think the longest I’ve ever been with one family is 2 years. That happened once in my entire life. Anyways, with all this moving you can just imagine how many friends I’ve made right? Not. I’ve been across three different states in my lifetime. I’ve never been able to make or keep friends. Now onto the actual story.
I padded into the kitchen of my new/old house looking for something to head. The downside to this place was the food, or lack there of. But that was another thing I was used to. Seeing as I’m not in the care of everyone, the places I stay are not the best. I usually end up in low-income low class houses. It’s not very fun, but it’s life right?
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I woke up this morning to a very hung over father screaming at me at the top of his lungs about god only know what. Probably about sleeping through his lectures. “And another thing!” I must have woken up right in the middle of his speech because I felt a hard blow to the stomach shortly after I woke up. It knocked the air right out of me. “You little freak. You don’t deserve to live here.” Luckily the beating was short today, just one hit. He must not have been drinking that much last night; but it still hurt none the less.
I stumbled out of bed and into my bathroom, locking the door behind me. Oddly, this bathroom was the only room in the house with a lock; therefore it was the only safe place to hide. Basically (if you haven’t guessed) my life is just one big drunken, angry, painful blur. It hurt badly but I had this strange feeling that things were about to change.
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I walked into the living room where my “mother” was watching some random soap opera. “May I please have some breakfast?” I asked, trying to be polite and grateful, but at the same time explain how hungry I was. “Just find something!” She grunted, not turning away from her soap opera. I sighed quietly and walked back into my “room”. I had immediately decided I couldn’t stay in a place that didn’t feed me. How did I figure that out so quickly? Well when you move from home to home for do long, you just kind of get a feel for things like this.
I swung my backpack (which, sadly, held everything I owned in it. That includes a few clothes, a notebook, and an Mp3 I got for Christmas once. I’ve managed to keep loading songs on it at random places over the years. It basically keeps me alive.) Anyways, I slung it over my shoulder and announced my departure. Fortunately “mom” didn’t care.
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I had my shower for the morning and cautiously crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dad was passed out on the couch and mom was nowhere to be scene. I figured I could grad some food and sneak back upstairs undetected. I was dead wrong.
“What’dya think you’re doing?” I turned to face my “father” (if you can really call him a parent.) “Getting some food.” I snapped back, turning to grab and apple from the crisper. “Don’t you back talk!” Smack, right across the face. The force knocked me to the ground and I snapped. For 10 years (so since I was 3) I’d put up with his shit. Enough was e-fucking-nough.
I pulled myself up off the ground and connected my first with my dad’s face. He fell to the ground, not so much out of force, but out of shock that I’d hit him. “GET OUT!” He bellowed, chasing me up the stairs and into my room. Luckily I got in first and managed to barricade the door. I had just enough time to grad some stuff and escape from this house. Unfortunately, I would never be able to return, so I had to choose my stuff carefully.
I shoved some clothed into my backpack along with my lyric book/notebook, and ipod. I also managed to grab up my guitar. Unfortunately, that was all I could afford to bring with me.
“See ya dad!” I shouted through the door while jumping the few feet out my window and down to the ground. I hit the ground running, trying to get as far away from that drunken hellhole as I possibly could. I never wanted to return there again.
I padded into the kitchen of my new/old house looking for something to head. The downside to this place was the food, or lack there of. But that was another thing I was used to. Seeing as I’m not in the care of everyone, the places I stay are not the best. I usually end up in low-income low class houses. It’s not very fun, but it’s life right?
--------------------------------------
I woke up this morning to a very hung over father screaming at me at the top of his lungs about god only know what. Probably about sleeping through his lectures. “And another thing!” I must have woken up right in the middle of his speech because I felt a hard blow to the stomach shortly after I woke up. It knocked the air right out of me. “You little freak. You don’t deserve to live here.” Luckily the beating was short today, just one hit. He must not have been drinking that much last night; but it still hurt none the less.
I stumbled out of bed and into my bathroom, locking the door behind me. Oddly, this bathroom was the only room in the house with a lock; therefore it was the only safe place to hide. Basically (if you haven’t guessed) my life is just one big drunken, angry, painful blur. It hurt badly but I had this strange feeling that things were about to change.
----------------------------------------
I walked into the living room where my “mother” was watching some random soap opera. “May I please have some breakfast?” I asked, trying to be polite and grateful, but at the same time explain how hungry I was. “Just find something!” She grunted, not turning away from her soap opera. I sighed quietly and walked back into my “room”. I had immediately decided I couldn’t stay in a place that didn’t feed me. How did I figure that out so quickly? Well when you move from home to home for do long, you just kind of get a feel for things like this.
I swung my backpack (which, sadly, held everything I owned in it. That includes a few clothes, a notebook, and an Mp3 I got for Christmas once. I’ve managed to keep loading songs on it at random places over the years. It basically keeps me alive.) Anyways, I slung it over my shoulder and announced my departure. Fortunately “mom” didn’t care.
-------------------------------------------
I had my shower for the morning and cautiously crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dad was passed out on the couch and mom was nowhere to be scene. I figured I could grad some food and sneak back upstairs undetected. I was dead wrong.
“What’dya think you’re doing?” I turned to face my “father” (if you can really call him a parent.) “Getting some food.” I snapped back, turning to grab and apple from the crisper. “Don’t you back talk!” Smack, right across the face. The force knocked me to the ground and I snapped. For 10 years (so since I was 3) I’d put up with his shit. Enough was e-fucking-nough.
I pulled myself up off the ground and connected my first with my dad’s face. He fell to the ground, not so much out of force, but out of shock that I’d hit him. “GET OUT!” He bellowed, chasing me up the stairs and into my room. Luckily I got in first and managed to barricade the door. I had just enough time to grad some stuff and escape from this house. Unfortunately, I would never be able to return, so I had to choose my stuff carefully.
I shoved some clothed into my backpack along with my lyric book/notebook, and ipod. I also managed to grab up my guitar. Unfortunately, that was all I could afford to bring with me.
“See ya dad!” I shouted through the door while jumping the few feet out my window and down to the ground. I hit the ground running, trying to get as far away from that drunken hellhole as I possibly could. I never wanted to return there again.