I'm Fine

Chapter Eight - Dalton

January 

Here we go again, waiting. Waiting for the lazy old man to get up from his favorite recliner. Waiting for him to pick up his keys and walk himself to his car. Waiting for him to drive down to the school and pick me up.

But that's not the case. Instead, I always find myself waiting for him to remember that I even exist in his life.

I guess it is my fault for being so involved in after school activities. I could choose not to participate in different clubs or volunteer for extra credit, but that would only ensure my demise as it creeps closer to my eighteenth birthday, and I still don't have anywhere to go.

College is my best option. It's my safety blanket at this point. But here's the kicker, I don't have any money to put towards college.

Hence, the many days of staying after, writing scholarships, working in clubs, volunteering to help teachers so I can weasel my way into college. There, I can finally have a new start, that part of my life that I can finally control.

I guess I don't mind the walks home, or I'm used to it, but it gives me time to think. Time to think about where I am and make sure I am doing everything I can to reach the next step in my life. Time to think about my living situation and how I can't wait to be out of that house much less out of the foster system.

To think about my backup if college doesn't work. I tend to avoid this topic because, at this point, I don't know what to do if college doesn't work.

Then there's the whole job situation. I've applied everywhere I can think, but no one wants to hire me. I don't get it, is it my appearance? Is it my personality? Do I have an unappealing personality? Is this why I don't have that many friends?

I mean, I have Lonny to talk to, but is Lonny really a friend? He only hits me up when he wants to be reckless, which is more often than one would think.

But we do have a lot in common, especially considering we both lived in the same foster home for almost a year. I didn't mind hanging out with him, we had a lot of fun, but he doesn't know boundaries, which always worried me about Lonny.

Before I knew it, I had reached the house. The lights were on inside, which meant that the old man was home. I could feel the annoyance inside as I think of the many times he could have simply just picked me up like the old man said he would, but he never does, and there's always some stupid excuse.

"Where have you been, son?" He declared as I made my way through the front door. I took a deep breath and mentally reminded myself to avoid any type of confrontation; it just wasn't worth it.

"At school." I stated sternly as I turned and began to make my way towards my room.

"This whole time? Boy, it's 7 pm." His lips pursed into a frown.

"No, I spent the last 30 minutes walking home from school." I reminded him as I continued towards the hallway. I could hear him take in a deep breath, realizing that he forgot, again.

"Boy, I'm..." I closed my door before he could continue his weak apology.

Part of me wanted him to follow me to my room and at least try to give another excuse. I hated the excuses, but I hate it more that he doesn't even try to act like he cares.

I didn't know why I craved his attention or any of the foster parent's attention. It's not like they're my parents, or that they even want to be, I'm just a blip in their life. One wrong move, and they are immediately ready to hand me off to another family.

It's weird, not knowing what it feels like to be loved, to be wanted. I think I have an idea of the feeling, but that was when I was five, and even then, I could have imagined it.

I feel like I only have a few memories with my dad. I know he was there for at least the first five years, but those are the five years I remembered least. It's like my brain is against me, slowly deleting memories, good or bad, it can't tell the difference.

The only thing I remember of my dad is what he looked like, what his voice sounded like, and why he had to leave. He didn't choose to get cancer, he couldn't help that he couldn't afford the therapy, and dad didn't have anyone he trusted to hand me off to when he was gone. But I didn't choose any of that either, so why am I still suffering?

I knew exactly why my mom left; she knew Dad was sick. She knew I didn't have anywhere to go when she left. But that's just what I keep telling myself; so that I don't feel bad about hating her for leaving.

The truth is, I don't know why she left when she did. I don't understand why she hasn't come looking for me?

Lonny asked me if I ever thought of looking for her, I have. But oddly enough, I don't want to find her, because that's what she should be doing herself if she genuinely cared. Why would I go looking for someone who doesn't even want me?

Does anyone want me? I could feel myself spiraling downward quickly. So many emotions and thoughts are running through my head.

I made my way over and grabbed my journal, hoping to get everything out on paper to calm the storm in my brain.

January 14th,

What's the use? Why do I even try? Why am I even trying to go to college at all? I don't even know what I want to do for a career. I'll tell you why it's because I'm trying to run away to a better life. That's probably what my mom did. She realized her situation and wanted to start over, so she ran away.

I'm just like her, trying to escape the life that's already laid out for me. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to fail at trying to get into college. I am never going to get a job. I will be kicked out of this house and will officially be living on the streets. I don't even have a car to live in, so I will probably die of hypothermia if I don't die of starvation first. And who's going to care?

NO ONE. No one cares. I have no one who would even flinch if they saw on the news that I was dead. Would they even show me on a news report, "Random hobo kid dies of starvation." No, probably not, I will be in the obituary in the paper. And then what, would the people I've gone to school with even recognize my name, probably not.

So why even care? Why even try? No one else cares for me; no one else tries to help me. So why am I even wasting my breath?

I felt the pencil fall from my hands as I wrote the last sentence. Did I mean it, did I feel deep down that it's not even worth trying? If that's true, then what do I do next? Do I end it all?

The thought felt like a knife in my chest. I've never felt so broken before. I almost feel empty and hollow. For the first time, there are no emotions. No anger, no fear, no sadness, but also no joy, not one single bit. Just emptiness.

I couldn't tell if I liked this feeling or not, but all I knew was that I needed to rethink my life. Rethink what I want to do next. Hoping that someone will prove me wrong and that maybe I could be missed when I'm gone.