Error 404: An Anthology Series

Misfits

I was like a lot of kids growing up. I was loud and obnoxious. Even my dad got annoyed by me from time to time. The only difference between me and the other kids was that I didn't have many friends. I don't think I even had any growing up. The only "friend" I had was a Yasmin Bratz doll that one of my aunts gave me for my 7th birthday. A big part of me didn't really mind. I very much preferred the disproportioned dolls growing up than anything else. Or anyone else. I remember almost every night, I would have the doll by my side in bed. Sometimes I'd take her on our summer trips to Vegas and our camping trips, and I cried when she wasn't with me. The only place the Yasmin doll wasn't with me was school. I was worried someone else would, "do her harm," whatever that was.

At school, no one really talked to me, especially during lunch or recess. I was the last to get picked in class projects and any activity in P.E. A small handful would ask me to play but it wasn't all the time, at least in middle school. In elementary, they did. They didn't know I was a Native at the time, might've played a part as to why they didn't want to hang out when I got older. It wasn't all the time but there were times I heard someone say, "savage." I didn't know what it meant at the time, but it hurt. A lot. Sometimes I came home with puffy eyes, wet cheeks, and a lumpy feeling in my throat. "Freyja, don't listen to them," my dad would tell me, "You're strong."

I was happy I had my dad. He was a single man trying his best to raise a chaotic child like myself. My mom wasn't really in the picture. She lost me to my dad after they got divorced and didn't really bother to visit me after she lost. I don't know what she did to lose me but from what I read, she had a lot of struggles. Drinking was one of them. She dated a bunch of different guys, from what I remember. Just like my dad's partners, I didn't really like them. One of them was the reason why I couldn't see her again. At least not physically. In 4th grade, she was reported dead on a scene of a car crash, inside the passenger seat of a severely damaged vehicle. The driver was terribly mangled and was left as a John Doe in the case. Various drugs were found in his system. I don't remember what kind they were, their official names were too long and I couldn't correlate any nicknames to them, but I was sure they were the strong kind. The same ones were found in my mom. She even mixed them with hard liquor. I don't know what they were doing driving in the car but my best guess was that they were headed to the hospital. I honestly thought it was perfect irony. No one wanted to go near me at school, not even the teachers, probably due to fear of bringing my mom up. Even the teachers I closest to didn't bat a single eye to me or say a single word. Problem was, I did see her and her John Doe every few days, their almas as one teacher called them. That teacher was an elderly woman who immigrated from Mexico and was the only one who knew of my mom and her Doe, even tried to help me get rid of them, just as the shamans did. They never did though, just like the others. If I were honest, though, I didn't really mind having them around, at least her anyways. John was too gross to look at, still had the mangled face from the crash. My mom still had the broken nose and swollen eye. I was able to spend some of the lost time with her and, if they had any perks, they told me who was bad and who wasn't for a short while. They left after a while.

When middle school started, things were probably worse. Academically, I was a good student and some of the teachers I had liked me. At least, I think they did. My grades helped me get my own locker, too. Though, I'd always find it written on, usually with permanent marker. A lot of the staff had a tendency to blame me for doing it. Whenever I tried defending myself, I was always scolded. There was only one person who tried helping me. Another student; Milo. A student from a Latino household who had trouble controlling his emotions and somewhat understood what I had been experiencing. Practically the whole staff were white, or acted white, so we were stereotyped more often than not. Milo and I had a strange relationship. We didn't really talk much, nor did we hang out but we were often paired in any class project. Most of the time, we were at each other's house for these projects, since he desperately needed to improve his grades. His mom and grandparents adored me. Sometimes I'd hear his grandma yell at him when I visited.