Yay, story time.
Prologue
When you’re young, you can’t wait to grow up. I was that way for a long time. Well, until I was about ten. Then I realized, that I never had a childhood. My childhood was spent taking care of my mother, spending time alone,. and missing out on many joys in life. I can remember being able to read very well at an early age. I’d watch television and see movies where little kids would have their parents read to them. I’d ask my parents to do the same for me. The outcome would usually be, my mother was too drunk to read or she was passed out anyhow and my father would tell me that he could read just so he could stay on his computer until two o’clock in the morning. After this ordeal, I’d retire to my little corner where I would play, hide from their eyes and cry until I felt better.
I actually had many toys when I was younger. I’d be good or do something and my parents would buy it for me. I’d come home, tear the toy out of the box and play with it all night long. The next day I was return for more hours of good play to only find it missing. I’d ask my mother where it was and she’d reply “It’s a collectors item, I put it up.” or “You left it out so I took it.” At the time, I didn’t see anything wrong with it but now I do. Until this day, she has all my things. After the divorce, she even took my TV, stereo, and tried to also take my computer desk leaving me with nothing.
My mother was one to make things up in her mind. She would tell me stories about my grandma and how she would lock her in the basement and not feed her. How my grandmother would let everyone in the family eat before her and when they were done, she’d have my mother come and scrounge for scraps. Then there was the story about beating her until she couldn’t walk with a curtain rod. All of these stories were totally fabricated. Still, she became the town drunk by the age of 16 and everyone would steer clear from the rest of the family.
In the late seventies my mother and father met. I was never told how. All I know is they dated, were married, and moved to Florida. My mother thought she was pregnant after awhile. This is when she claimed my father held her at gun point and threw her out of the house. She came back to Ohio and he married some woman named Dawn. They were married for about a year, divorced and according to my mother he came back to Ohio for her. Of course, he has a different version of the story. By this time it was the late eighties. They married again and my mother once again thought she was pregnant. Her story, once again was my father didn’t want the child and wanted her to get an abortion but who knows. She is one who is known to lie. Anyhow, in January of 1990, I was born into this hell that I am forced to call life. I remember once in school we had to write a journal entry where the topic was “What could be the greatest gift that someone gave you?”. A kid replied that life in general was the best gift of all. This comment, to me, is extremely wrong.
Chapter One
I don’t remember much until I was about twelve. Just bits and pieces. I’ve tried to forget my childhood, I guess. Here’s what I know and remember:
I was born on January 23, 1990 at Bethesda Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio. Truly, it’s on the border of Ohio and Kentucky (more so in Kentucky) but due to my extreme dislike of rednecks, we will just say Cincinnati.
I lived in Middletown in some unknown apartment complex until I was about two. The only thing I remember of this apartment was that the carpet was tan, there was a window in the living room, and we had a Siamese cat named Baby. As said before, when I was about two we moved. Apparently, we knew what we wanted in a house and where the house was to be. I believe it was a long process and then finally, we found one. I was told that I chose the house which I don’t believe. The house belonged to a family with the last name of a water fowl and was in terrible shape. Mirrors were broken, doors were kicked in, and the walls had been ruined. It was one of those “fixer - upper” houses that never get done.
The only thing I remember from the ages two to five was that for my third birthday the cake had a photo of the Little Mermaid on it. For some reason I was obsessed with it. I even had the lunch box with the thermos but that lunch box will come into play later.
The first thing I remember from when I was about five was when the weird things started happening in this house. I can clearly remember my mother coming home at about two in the morning, completely drunk. She came in and passed out on the couch but from all the noise she had made, I was wide awake. After awhile, when I was still awake, I heard the noises. It sounded like a metal hammer hitting another piece of metal over and over and marching up and down the halls and into what it now, my bedroom. Soon after that, the dreams began. Now, my mother had always been into the “supernatural” and enjoyed watching things about strange happenings. I had never believe it until that night. My father still claims that it is all in my head and I’m just imagining things because I’m “dark” and “evil” but, this is coming from a man who believes in aliens. Anyhow, back to my lovely dreams. In my dream, my mother and I would be looking out my front door and see a woman who is completely white standing in the driveway. My mother would always say “What is that?” and then the woman would shout “Don’t look at me!” and come and kill my parents and chase me into the closet where the little girl with sharp teeth would be. The dream always ended after that.
I started school not long after that. I did indeed dread it. I had a feeling that it was going to be horrible. I would be taken away from the only thing I’d ever known and be thrown into a group of kids that I did not know. The worst part was I would be away from my mother. I remember on the first day, I was one of the kids crying. I cried on my first day of school. I begged my mother to take me home but she just left. I had then had to go sit down and be miserable.
My teacher, Mrs. Coleman was African American. That was another thing that I was not used to. My father had always referred to them as “niggers” and I was supposed to hate them. There were many nights when he would talk of joining the KKK or he would play KKK songs. However, I did not him influence me. Mrs. Coleman was just evil. For some reason, she loathed me like no other child before. Everything I did was wrong and everything I said was wrong. Of course, when my parents were around, though, her actions would change. She’d act like she loved me.
Once, we had to make a book about the weather. One of the pages was about snow and we had to make snow flakes. Being five, I had no idea how to do this. She showed the class but didn’t make it clear so my snowflake fell apart. I asked her for a new piece of paper and some help. She gave me paper but no help. I asked my friend Amber to help me. When Mrs. Coleman found out she screamed at us and told Amber to never help me again.
By this time I was crying from frustration and I had one again failed. I asked again for some paper and help and was told that I had already used five pieces of paper and that I was out of luck. For one, I had only used five pieces of paper and there were a ton of kids who had used more than I had and were still going back and getting more. I never made a snowflake that day.
Another thing she hated me for was my drawing. Apparently, there is a certain way to draw people and I wasn’t grasping the concept of that. I drew people, at the time, with a box body, a line for arms and legs, at the end of the lines there was either a circle for a shoe or five other lines for fingers, a line neck, and a circle head. To her, this was a “stick figure” and it was wrong to draw this way. I found this highly odd. For God’s sake! Picasso made a living off painting portraits where people’s noses were on their chin instead of the middle of their face, but I’m drawing wrong?
Chapter Two
That summer wasn’t very interesting from what I can remember. The only thing I recall happening was me breaking my wrists. Obese six year olds and foot stools don’t mix. I found out the hard way. It broke from underneath me and I out my hand to catch my fall. I ended up breaking two bones in my wrist.
When it happened my arm went numb but had sharp pains shoot through it. I began to crying from lack of knowing what happened and ran to my father’s bed and cried myself to sleep. I slept for about four or five hours and then my mother woke me up and asked what happened. She wasn’t even there at the time it happened but my father had told her that I had cried myself to sleep. He claimed he didn’t know what happened nor did he bother to ask even though it wasn’t physically possible for him to not know I fell. I was right behind him, I ran right past him crying. He didn’t even ask what was wrong.
I went to the hospital and had a lovely pink cast put on my arm. I had to have it on for six weeks. I learned to use my left hand exceptionally well during this time. I could even snap...sadly, I can’t anymore.
By the time school started, the cast was gone and I was back to my normal, reckless self. I remember first grade orientation. I saw my friend Stephanie there. I had met her a couple summers before when I found out that my grandmother actually had neighbors. We had played together all summer and now she was in my school.
My first grade teacher was much better than kindergarten. Her name was Mrs. Nichols and she was freakishly nice. In first grade I spent most of my time being sick, being chased by a kid with a foot shaped pillow, dressing strangely, and struggling through six months without my mother. There was also the kid in first grade who beat me with my Little Mermaid lunch box. Sadly, he now has kids of his own.
When you’re young, you can’t wait to grow up. I was that way for a long time. Well, until I was about ten. Then I realized, that I never had a childhood. My childhood was spent taking care of my mother, spending time alone,. and missing out on many joys in life. I can remember being able to read very well at an early age. I’d watch television and see movies where little kids would have their parents read to them. I’d ask my parents to do the same for me. The outcome would usually be, my mother was too drunk to read or she was passed out anyhow and my father would tell me that he could read just so he could stay on his computer until two o’clock in the morning. After this ordeal, I’d retire to my little corner where I would play, hide from their eyes and cry until I felt better.
I actually had many toys when I was younger. I’d be good or do something and my parents would buy it for me. I’d come home, tear the toy out of the box and play with it all night long. The next day I was return for more hours of good play to only find it missing. I’d ask my mother where it was and she’d reply “It’s a collectors item, I put it up.” or “You left it out so I took it.” At the time, I didn’t see anything wrong with it but now I do. Until this day, she has all my things. After the divorce, she even took my TV, stereo, and tried to also take my computer desk leaving me with nothing.
My mother was one to make things up in her mind. She would tell me stories about my grandma and how she would lock her in the basement and not feed her. How my grandmother would let everyone in the family eat before her and when they were done, she’d have my mother come and scrounge for scraps. Then there was the story about beating her until she couldn’t walk with a curtain rod. All of these stories were totally fabricated. Still, she became the town drunk by the age of 16 and everyone would steer clear from the rest of the family.
In the late seventies my mother and father met. I was never told how. All I know is they dated, were married, and moved to Florida. My mother thought she was pregnant after awhile. This is when she claimed my father held her at gun point and threw her out of the house. She came back to Ohio and he married some woman named Dawn. They were married for about a year, divorced and according to my mother he came back to Ohio for her. Of course, he has a different version of the story. By this time it was the late eighties. They married again and my mother once again thought she was pregnant. Her story, once again was my father didn’t want the child and wanted her to get an abortion but who knows. She is one who is known to lie. Anyhow, in January of 1990, I was born into this hell that I am forced to call life. I remember once in school we had to write a journal entry where the topic was “What could be the greatest gift that someone gave you?”. A kid replied that life in general was the best gift of all. This comment, to me, is extremely wrong.
Chapter One
I don’t remember much until I was about twelve. Just bits and pieces. I’ve tried to forget my childhood, I guess. Here’s what I know and remember:
I was born on January 23, 1990 at Bethesda Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio. Truly, it’s on the border of Ohio and Kentucky (more so in Kentucky) but due to my extreme dislike of rednecks, we will just say Cincinnati.
I lived in Middletown in some unknown apartment complex until I was about two. The only thing I remember of this apartment was that the carpet was tan, there was a window in the living room, and we had a Siamese cat named Baby. As said before, when I was about two we moved. Apparently, we knew what we wanted in a house and where the house was to be. I believe it was a long process and then finally, we found one. I was told that I chose the house which I don’t believe. The house belonged to a family with the last name of a water fowl and was in terrible shape. Mirrors were broken, doors were kicked in, and the walls had been ruined. It was one of those “fixer - upper” houses that never get done.
The only thing I remember from the ages two to five was that for my third birthday the cake had a photo of the Little Mermaid on it. For some reason I was obsessed with it. I even had the lunch box with the thermos but that lunch box will come into play later.
The first thing I remember from when I was about five was when the weird things started happening in this house. I can clearly remember my mother coming home at about two in the morning, completely drunk. She came in and passed out on the couch but from all the noise she had made, I was wide awake. After awhile, when I was still awake, I heard the noises. It sounded like a metal hammer hitting another piece of metal over and over and marching up and down the halls and into what it now, my bedroom. Soon after that, the dreams began. Now, my mother had always been into the “supernatural” and enjoyed watching things about strange happenings. I had never believe it until that night. My father still claims that it is all in my head and I’m just imagining things because I’m “dark” and “evil” but, this is coming from a man who believes in aliens. Anyhow, back to my lovely dreams. In my dream, my mother and I would be looking out my front door and see a woman who is completely white standing in the driveway. My mother would always say “What is that?” and then the woman would shout “Don’t look at me!” and come and kill my parents and chase me into the closet where the little girl with sharp teeth would be. The dream always ended after that.
I started school not long after that. I did indeed dread it. I had a feeling that it was going to be horrible. I would be taken away from the only thing I’d ever known and be thrown into a group of kids that I did not know. The worst part was I would be away from my mother. I remember on the first day, I was one of the kids crying. I cried on my first day of school. I begged my mother to take me home but she just left. I had then had to go sit down and be miserable.
My teacher, Mrs. Coleman was African American. That was another thing that I was not used to. My father had always referred to them as “niggers” and I was supposed to hate them. There were many nights when he would talk of joining the KKK or he would play KKK songs. However, I did not him influence me. Mrs. Coleman was just evil. For some reason, she loathed me like no other child before. Everything I did was wrong and everything I said was wrong. Of course, when my parents were around, though, her actions would change. She’d act like she loved me.
Once, we had to make a book about the weather. One of the pages was about snow and we had to make snow flakes. Being five, I had no idea how to do this. She showed the class but didn’t make it clear so my snowflake fell apart. I asked her for a new piece of paper and some help. She gave me paper but no help. I asked my friend Amber to help me. When Mrs. Coleman found out she screamed at us and told Amber to never help me again.
By this time I was crying from frustration and I had one again failed. I asked again for some paper and help and was told that I had already used five pieces of paper and that I was out of luck. For one, I had only used five pieces of paper and there were a ton of kids who had used more than I had and were still going back and getting more. I never made a snowflake that day.
Another thing she hated me for was my drawing. Apparently, there is a certain way to draw people and I wasn’t grasping the concept of that. I drew people, at the time, with a box body, a line for arms and legs, at the end of the lines there was either a circle for a shoe or five other lines for fingers, a line neck, and a circle head. To her, this was a “stick figure” and it was wrong to draw this way. I found this highly odd. For God’s sake! Picasso made a living off painting portraits where people’s noses were on their chin instead of the middle of their face, but I’m drawing wrong?
Chapter Two
That summer wasn’t very interesting from what I can remember. The only thing I recall happening was me breaking my wrists. Obese six year olds and foot stools don’t mix. I found out the hard way. It broke from underneath me and I out my hand to catch my fall. I ended up breaking two bones in my wrist.
When it happened my arm went numb but had sharp pains shoot through it. I began to crying from lack of knowing what happened and ran to my father’s bed and cried myself to sleep. I slept for about four or five hours and then my mother woke me up and asked what happened. She wasn’t even there at the time it happened but my father had told her that I had cried myself to sleep. He claimed he didn’t know what happened nor did he bother to ask even though it wasn’t physically possible for him to not know I fell. I was right behind him, I ran right past him crying. He didn’t even ask what was wrong.
I went to the hospital and had a lovely pink cast put on my arm. I had to have it on for six weeks. I learned to use my left hand exceptionally well during this time. I could even snap...sadly, I can’t anymore.
By the time school started, the cast was gone and I was back to my normal, reckless self. I remember first grade orientation. I saw my friend Stephanie there. I had met her a couple summers before when I found out that my grandmother actually had neighbors. We had played together all summer and now she was in my school.
My first grade teacher was much better than kindergarten. Her name was Mrs. Nichols and she was freakishly nice. In first grade I spent most of my time being sick, being chased by a kid with a foot shaped pillow, dressing strangely, and struggling through six months without my mother. There was also the kid in first grade who beat me with my Little Mermaid lunch box. Sadly, he now has kids of his own.