Changed (DISCONTINUED)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Mikayla Kyen Noberry was a 17 year old, Ukrainian, foster child. Purple and brown hair, hazel eyes, and bruised hands. Delinquent when it matters, but that isn't very often. Adopted, violent, and a total wreck as of lately. I suppose describing myself this way isn't very believable, but other peoples' comments don't describe me.

"freak"

"Anger issues"

"Grape haired weirdo"

Honestly, I'm surprised nothing is done about it. But, what would you expect from the staff at a vocational school? And for the fifth year students, nonetheless. Abbey Vocational School isn't the best place to start your move, but it....... yeah there's nothing that great. Except for the fact that it's better than being "homeschooled" when you're 15.

When I say "homeschool", I mean being given blank sheets of paper to write stuff on. My parents didn't even teach me, they just gave me some paper, pens, and pencils and expected me to figure it out myself. I ended up signing up for online classes since my parents were never home to help. It wasn't all that bad, but it wasn't great. Homeschooling is supposed to be done with other people. (or at least someone to teach you) But, it wasn't like that.

My dad was a short angry man, who left home at 3 am, and returned at 12 am. Every. Single. Day. He never helped around the house. In fact, he did the exact opposite. He didn't want to help, and he made it everyone's problem. My father would constantly complain about how nothing could get done around here, and how he needs us to act like the "women we are", and clean all day.

My mother was ... a little insane. She was always nervous and constantly looked like she was afraid of being hit. I think I understand why. But, she tried her best to clean and keep the house in shape, even though no one could help her. I feel bad for her since she had to run the entire household, and work a 9 to 5 job.

My place in this whole thing was, to say the least, nothing. Half the time it was like I didn't exist. It had been that way for years. I worked, ate, slept, and repeated every day for 6 years. It's not like we were poor, my parents just didn't care. They never acted like "parents". They ignored me and left me to do everything by myself.

We weren't a happy family, nor a bad one. We were just... there. Existing. Perhaps things could've gotten better, but they didn't. Because no one tried.

In my third year of online secondary school, the year before my transition year, everything was blank, bland, basic. The same? It was like I was living in a simulation. A boring video game where I did the same thing everyday. My hazel eyes stared at a page and a computer screen for 6 hours, every day. For the first 4 months of my 3rd year, everything was the same. And things could've gotten better. Change, maybe. They did change. Just not for the best.

Overtime, things got worse. My father yelled everyday. And My mother sobbed uncontrollably in her room. It was like they forgot they had a child to raise. But, in Kyiv in February, it was easier to get away from the madness. It started off with daydreaming. I would dream of biking all the way around Kyiv in my purple windbreaker and grey beanie, just taking in the lights and scenes. It was better that way. To escape from all the chaos and find a better place. The more my parents yelled, the farther I would bike. Every time I daydreamed, the longing to leave got harder to resist.

Mid February was when I'd had enough of just daydreaming and doodling flowers on my notes. I needed to embrace those daydreams and get away from my home. So, while my parents were at their usual schedule of yelling and crying, I came up with a schedule of my own.

The internet really helped when it came to figuring out where I would go. I searched for nearby parks, and when I found one, I got ready to leave. I passed through the halls of noise and anger, sneaking past every doorway and entrance. Quickly, I grabbed my purple windbreaker, black Converse, and gray beanie. Zipping the jacket over my black graphic tee shirt, sliding the beanie over my short multicolored hair, putting on some gloves so my hands don't get cold on the bike handles, and slipping my dark shoes over my thin feet, I was ready to get away.

Carefully, I headed out the front door, grabbing my backpack on my way out. I stopped by the shed to grab my old turquoise bike, and when I kicked up the kickstand, the noise inside got louder. The noise kept getting more aggressive. I pulled my beanie further over my ears to help drown out the noise so I could go. In a swift attempt to get away, I hopped on my bike, pushed off the dirt ground, and sped down the driveway and onto the road.

As I gained more speed, I got a sense of where I was going. My brain shifted out of the cluttered mindset and into a more peaceful zone. Following the signs, I headed towards Pushkin park in search of sanity. Riding on the sidewalk next to bustling cars, and revving motorcycles made me feel less alone in a way. It made me feel like I was free. The air was cold and fresh, and the sky was a grayish blue shining a hint of light onto the empty park. But, As I snapped back into a sense of consciousness, I realized that, despite being "free", I was cold. Considering 0 degrees celsius isn't a warm temperature by standard means.

Thinking about this predicament as I peddled through the park made me realize that there were cafes nearby. Cafes meant hot chocolate. And hot chocolate meant warmth. So, in a valid attempt to warm up, I went to the nearest café, and bought myself a hot cocoa. I walked with my bike handle in one hand, and hot cocoa in the other, to an empty, worn-out, wooden bench.

I sat down, setting both my bike and backpack on the ground, and placing my hot chocolate on the bench. Upon opening my backpack, I grabbed my notebook out, and a pen. Opening my notebook and taking a sip of my hot cocoa, I wrote

Pushkin Park, 2/16/2018

I began to write about places nearby, and things I saw. Just so I could ease my nerves finally. It felt so good to finally be away like I had always dreamed of. To truly be free from my parents' grasp, even if it's just for a short while. I felt like an entirely different person, not the 15 year old dweeb with terrible parents I had been before. I felt like a butterfly . Being alone on this chilly day made me feel less pressured, and more like I didn't always need to be perfect. "It's nice to have a change for once." I thought. And then it hit me. The word change was what needed to happen right now. Something needed to change. I grabbed my phone out of my sunflower yellow backpack, to search for simple ways to change, when I saw something strange. A call from... my aunt? Why would she call me? I pressed on her contact so I could call her back. I put the bright screen up to my ear. Then, the phone started ringing, and a lady's voice came into the speaker.

"Am I speaking to Mikayla?" The voice asked.

"Yes? Why are you calling? I replied in confusion.

I heard a quiet sob, and my aunt's voice got lower.

" Your parents were taken to the hospital after your father shot him and your mother."

I paused, trying to process this information.

"Excuse me?" I asked, in disbelief.

She replied in a quiet, empathetic tone, and said, "Your mother and father died..."