Letters From A Stranger |COMPLETE|

Part 5

The pen: wobbles in my hand. Eventually, I meet the pen with paper, and start. First and foremost, I must forewarn you about me. I'm not an open book, and I never tell anyone anything deep about myself, mostly because there is no one around to talk to. My mother left me at five in a park, and I never saw her again. Never met my dad. I live with a psycho named Christy, a part-time prostitute, and a full-time pain in my ass. She was next in line to take care of me, but I don't know how or if we are related. She drinks every night, most times until she passes out, and I'm not exaggerating. I don't own a car and I'm not allowed to drive anywhere unless it's somewhere she's ordered me to go. I figure I should end with a question, if that's alright. Why are you talking to me anyway? Haley.

Yelling: commences. Christy comes barreling down the hallway demanding I find the remote to the television. We only get about ten channels, but whatever. She wants it, so duty calls. I hastily hide all of my evidence and stand, waiting for her ass to enter my room. I know she will.

My door: it opens without turning the handle now. Pushing it does the job. Still, I watch the handle turn. She's already forgotten about breaking my door apart. It's slightly lopsided, but she probably doesn't even notice things like that. She can't focus on one thing long enough to see anything anymore.When she's completely in the room, my body goes frigid and goosebumps raise on my skin. It's a natural response that I've grown accustomed to over the years of living with her. My body knows when she's around me. And it's terrified of her too.

Her mouth: spits words at me. "Go find it. You had it last!" She growls, her face resembling that of a bulldog as she talks.

Television: never on my list of to-dos or to-wants. I hardly have the time to sit back and relax in my room without an interruption, how could she believe I've watched it? I want to tell her to use her hands and manually turn it on and change the channel—since there's only so many—but I don't. She'd come closer. However, I do tell her, "I haven't watched any TV, Christy."

My voice: hardly a voice at all. It's more of a whisper. A mumble. An inaudible attempt to defend myself. A fail. "What was that?" She questions, though I think she may have understood. Christy continues to speak, though, without another answer emerging from my mouth. "Go. Find. It." She throws up her hand, and I automatically cringe. But she doesn't hit me. She points down the hall.

A sigh: doesn't solve the problem, but one comes out anyway as I get to my feet and tread toward the living room area. Behind me, Christy mumbles rotten things, calling me names as she follows along in my wake. "While you're out here, you can make me something to eat."

Never: has Christy mentioned words like "us" or "we." I'm beginning to think they have not been written inside her internal dictionary. They don't exist in her brain at all. She only thinks of herself. I'm her maid. Her slave. Someone who doesn't matter. Someone who is here just to make her life easier.

The remote: under the couch. If she even tried looking for it, she would've found it in seconds. But that's not how Christy plays. It's always about having things done for her. I don't hand it to her when I find it; I chuck it on the chair and move to the kitchen. She's silent at first. Or should I say speechless?

Ramen noodles: the grand meal. I boil water and plunk the noodles in soon after. As I stir, Christy calls for a beer. I want to throw a bottle across the room at her, or tell her what a drunk she is, but I don't. I seal my lips shut and just do as I'm told. I set the stirring spoon down and pop open the fridge. There's two bottles left.