Faith - H.S.

Chapter One

The lights blinded me as I woke up from my sleep. I had yet another hangover. Series of last night came to me, nothing was quite clear but I did remember a man, probably in his 30's trying to bring me home. I denied him, like any decent 21 year old would do but I think he punched me.

Or something.

I groaned as I rolled out of bed. I tried to stand up, only making the headache worse. I leaned against the wall for support until the room stopped spinning. I stumbled to the bathroom, staring at my reflection dead in the eye. My tousled hair, the makeup that I failed to take off last night and the purple bruise on the side of my face. I winced as I touched the bloody scabs. I ran my hand through my hair, getting stuck in the knots formed, just leaned on the bathroom counter for a while. I took a deep breath in, and out. Still trying to calm myself from the massive headache. It was my birthday yesterday. The memories were too much for me to take, so until last year, when I was finally legal to drink, I would drink until every ounce of pain caused by my stupid 15th birthday dinner was gone. Sure I've woken up to strange men in my bed. But the pain subsided for the time I was drunk. That's the whole point of me going to the bar. To stop the pain. After blinking away my tears that I didn't even know came out, I clumsily reached out into my bathroom cupboard to look for my Advil. Taking the pills, I thought about maybe just taking the whole bottle.

Why not.

It's not like I had anything to live for. But I did. I was 21 years old. Davie was 19. You would think that even if I died, he would be able to take care of himself right? No. After the car crash, he was hit hardest in the head, causing the long-term condition of TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury, that doesn't allow him to behave normally ever again. He needs constant attention at all times. He can't meet new people since he would either scream out in fear or attack them. I've already been to the police station 38 times and the most recent time was because while I was at work desperately trying to earn some money so we both could live, he got out of the house, god knows how, and he attacked the person that had apparently the same jacket that dad did.

So I did have something to live for.

After the car crash, we were put up for adoption. I was easy to adopt, but not a mentally ill boy. The administrator, or Lana, she'd tell me to call her, at the orphanage told me that I should just go alone to a family. But she was telling me to give up the only family I had left. So I said no. Of course that lead to 3 years in an orphanage calming Davie down from any sudden reactions, watching my friends leave to a happy home, and the day I turned 18, I left the orphanage bringing Davie with me.

Lana, insisted to let me stay knowing that at least there I had food and warmth provided and if I left, I would have to either live on the streets or suffer a great deal working to afford a bit of food. Lana wasn't like those Christmas movies when
the lady there would force you to do chores, and never let you see any sunlight or have any fun. No, she was just an old widow who's husband died in war, and dreams of having children. Taking care of an orphanage was the next best thing. She took care of us the way she would treat her grand children, she would even shed some tears whenever someone had gotten adopted.

Many people would say that I grew up fine.

I would ask them if they were okay.

Of course I didn't grow up fine, I grew up knowing that my parents death was because of me.

But this is all just debris stuck at the back of my head.

Debris that I cannot dwell on too much, because it's in the past. I need to live in the now. Now, I need to give Davie his breakfast.

I walked over to his bedroom and see him sprawled out across the bed looking at nothing in particular and his fingers twitching with the hem of his underwear. I helped him sit upright and took out one of his cleaner shirts and pulled it over him, then picked up his basketball shorts off of the floor and helped him into it. Just a typical everyday routine. "There you go, now don't you look handsome?" I lead him towards the mirror and he looked over himself, then looked at me.

"Ar-re y-you tiyed?" He tried his best to pronounce each word properly, since he was often beaten up at school because of his verbal obstruction. When he had just left the hospital, he couldn't even say a "hello" properly. After hours of nonstop practices, millions of flash cards, and intimidation by the douches in his school, he was able to express basic sentences and needs with some hesitation and stammers.

I shook my head. "No Davie, I'm fine, see?" I forced up a giant teeth-baring smile as he giggled, I giggled with him. I put my hands on his shoulders. "Do you want some breakfast?" He nodded furiously and I grinned, as always, he would always grin with me.

I walked to the kitchen as Davie followed closely behind, shuffling. It wasn't a long walk since I lived in a crappy, old apartment with a bitchy landlord. But I knew I couldn't complain, at least we're not sleeping on the dirty sidewalks.