Status: Construting.
Midnight
Excuse me, sir.
It was Monday, February 15. The day my entire life changed. It was a drastic change, and I can't say that I'm happy about it, but nor am I mournful.
I was 17 years old, an only child, and my name was Penelope. Penelope Marie Andrews, to be exact, but most people just called me Marie. I was named after my Great Grandmother Penelope, and my Grandmother Marie. I was not fond of the name, but my mother sure loved it. My mother was a mess, and I had never met my father. Mom said he left her as soon as he found out about her being pregnant with me. Don't you think that made me feel wonderful? Wrong. My mother loved him, and still does. Hence her being a mess since the day he left. I never understood why. I mean, he was a horrible man from what I've heard, but my mother never understood that. Oh, and by the way, she was fucking crazy, and she wishes I was never born. There were a few rare moments that she did act like she cared, but they were extremely few and far between.
I always laughed when people said that they had the worst mother in the world. I would have loved to see them take a walk in my shoes. Honestly, my mother just might have been the worst mother ever. Have you ever heard of a mother leaving her eight year old daughter all alone in the city park for three weeks straight , in the middle of winter, not even caring? Or would you ever imagine giving your five year old a bottle of Everclear and telling her it was water because you want her to die? Or yelling in her face telling her that you hope she dies everyday of her life? Or maybe you would stoop so low that you would watch your fifteen year old get raped by her step-father and not do a thing? Trust me, there's plenty more situations she had put me in, but that's just what my mom did, I guess. She got wasted every day. Heroin was her blood. Ganja was her food. Cocaine was her oxygen. Vodka was her water. Oh, any my step-dad, supplied everything, and he raped me on a weekly basis, but actually, he seemed to care about me. Also, the only reason my mother had even married him was because she knew that he would supply her with all the money, drugs, and alcohol she would ever need. But, since he had been there, I actually had someone to talk to. The only downfall of him was him raping me, which I got over after awhile. I mean, I didn't like it, actually I hated it, but honestly it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
I used to wish I was never born, or that my mom should have aborted the fetus. I hated myself. Seemed like everyone did, actually. Occasionally I would steal some of my mothers drugs to get through the day, but I was no addict. I was a cutter, and for some reason I never could bring myself to end my life no matter how bad I wanted too. I had scares on my legs, arms, and stomach area that plain as day say 'fuckup', 'fatass', and plenty more. I had started that around 14 or 15. I'm not ashamed of them, and I still get judgmental stares every once and awhile. My mother had drilled into my head that I was worthless, and that I didn't deserve to live because of what I had done to her. I mean, really. What the hell did I ever do to her? Nothing. She just thought that it was my fault that she didn't keep her legs closed or to actually notice how big of a douche bag her 'perfect' boyfriend was.
By now you're probably thinking that there was nothing good about my life. Which is mostly true, but I did have two good things. Their names were Ashlynn Blackfield and Shane Tillmore. They were my two best friends. Ashlynn was like a saint, and Shane was Heaven on Earth. I met Ashlynn in second grade and Shane in fifth grade. They knew how things were at my home, and they understood. They were both great listeners, great friends, and just amazing people all around. They are the only things I miss about my old life, and I wish I still had them today, but hey, I guess things change for a reason, eh?
I was 17 years old, an only child, and my name was Penelope. Penelope Marie Andrews, to be exact, but most people just called me Marie. I was named after my Great Grandmother Penelope, and my Grandmother Marie. I was not fond of the name, but my mother sure loved it. My mother was a mess, and I had never met my father. Mom said he left her as soon as he found out about her being pregnant with me. Don't you think that made me feel wonderful? Wrong. My mother loved him, and still does. Hence her being a mess since the day he left. I never understood why. I mean, he was a horrible man from what I've heard, but my mother never understood that. Oh, and by the way, she was fucking crazy, and she wishes I was never born. There were a few rare moments that she did act like she cared, but they were extremely few and far between.
I always laughed when people said that they had the worst mother in the world. I would have loved to see them take a walk in my shoes. Honestly, my mother just might have been the worst mother ever. Have you ever heard of a mother leaving her eight year old daughter all alone in the city park for three weeks straight , in the middle of winter, not even caring? Or would you ever imagine giving your five year old a bottle of Everclear and telling her it was water because you want her to die? Or yelling in her face telling her that you hope she dies everyday of her life? Or maybe you would stoop so low that you would watch your fifteen year old get raped by her step-father and not do a thing? Trust me, there's plenty more situations she had put me in, but that's just what my mom did, I guess. She got wasted every day. Heroin was her blood. Ganja was her food. Cocaine was her oxygen. Vodka was her water. Oh, any my step-dad, supplied everything, and he raped me on a weekly basis, but actually, he seemed to care about me. Also, the only reason my mother had even married him was because she knew that he would supply her with all the money, drugs, and alcohol she would ever need. But, since he had been there, I actually had someone to talk to. The only downfall of him was him raping me, which I got over after awhile. I mean, I didn't like it, actually I hated it, but honestly it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
I used to wish I was never born, or that my mom should have aborted the fetus. I hated myself. Seemed like everyone did, actually. Occasionally I would steal some of my mothers drugs to get through the day, but I was no addict. I was a cutter, and for some reason I never could bring myself to end my life no matter how bad I wanted too. I had scares on my legs, arms, and stomach area that plain as day say 'fuckup', 'fatass', and plenty more. I had started that around 14 or 15. I'm not ashamed of them, and I still get judgmental stares every once and awhile. My mother had drilled into my head that I was worthless, and that I didn't deserve to live because of what I had done to her. I mean, really. What the hell did I ever do to her? Nothing. She just thought that it was my fault that she didn't keep her legs closed or to actually notice how big of a douche bag her 'perfect' boyfriend was.
By now you're probably thinking that there was nothing good about my life. Which is mostly true, but I did have two good things. Their names were Ashlynn Blackfield and Shane Tillmore. They were my two best friends. Ashlynn was like a saint, and Shane was Heaven on Earth. I met Ashlynn in second grade and Shane in fifth grade. They knew how things were at my home, and they understood. They were both great listeners, great friends, and just amazing people all around. They are the only things I miss about my old life, and I wish I still had them today, but hey, I guess things change for a reason, eh?
♠ ♠ ♠
Will be continued...eventually.
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