Looking Back

Prologue

How do I begin...? Let's see. Once upon a time, I was born in a world like no other; A world full of hatred and corruption instead of love. No one was good. Not one. Everyone was too busy to love and too stuck on themselves to do anything for anyone else.

As a kid, I always regretted being born, because my broken family was not built on love. Money, sex, and drugs were my parent's first love. Not me I wasn't a part of their life, but being treated that way helped me become the person I am today which is definitely not a good thing.

I grew up hating my parents. I hated them so much. I hated my mother because she left me with a drunk for a father at the age of three. I never understood why. My dad told me that my mom hated me and deprecated having me for a child. They blamed me for their problems and arguments. It was my entire fault. When my mother left, it left a bad effect on my dad. He grew angry and turned to the beer bottle for help. But that only made matters worse especially with him directing his anger at me.

He turned abusive and life turned into a miserable, living hell.

I couldn't take it anymore. I assumed he hit me because I reminded him so much of my mother, but I could never believe he truly hated me. My mom was very beautiful. Remembering the pictures I seen of her, she had long red hair, green eyes, and a figure that would make any aged man stop and turn around. But one thing I never understood was why she would fall in love with my father in the first place. He was no where near handsome. He had a hairy face that needed to be shaved and a two ton belly that popped out of his shirt every time he flopped in his recliner chair in front of the TV. His hair was always messed up. It was disgusting, especially with the beer breath and the smell of cigarette smoke added to the smell of vomit.

So this is what it leads up to. Is there something out there greater than this life? I have heard people say there is a god, but is there really? I didn't believe in God because this question would always pop up in my head: What kind of God would allow an innocent child like me to be so broken and bruised by their own father? Isn't a father supposed to love their children and hold them when they are afraid? Aren't they supposed to make everything okay?

My father did nothing of the kind.

Have you ever heard of the saying 'hurt people will hurt people?' Well the way my father abused me reflected the way I treated everyone else at school. When someone said my hair was nappy or smelled bad because of cigarettes and beer, a fight would break out. Anytime there was a fight, I was always in the middle of it. Let's face it; I was born for the job. Almost every day, I was sent to the principal's office because of fighting. And every fight, it was always with a boy never a girl. Girls never talked to me. They were too afraid to pick on me because of what happened to the boys. I gave them black eyes and broken noses. It wasn't my fault that I didn't know how to fix my hair and dress like the other girls.

And also unlike the other kids, I didn't have any friends. Almost everyone was scared of me. I was lonely and only desperately wanted the love of my father.

One morning, I got up for school; I pulled on some clothes that covered most of the bruises on my arms and legs. I already wore those clothes once this week and this was going to be my second time. Someone was bound to know and make a smart remark out of it. My nappy, red hair hung loose around my face. Without my mom around, I was helpless. My father lay around doing nothing. It made me so mad. I put my shoes on with the holes in the toes. They were one size too small, but the best pair I had. The only pair I had.

I didn't have money like most of the other kids at my school. I didn't look as good as they did either. I was poor. That morning, I put the last of the bread in the toaster and ate it plain. We had no jelly, butter, or peanut butter. Sometimes I would have to go a day without any food.

When I made it to school that day, the whispers and stares started. It happened every day. And every day it made me angry. Everyone let me by without saying a word. I hated that the other kids were afraid of me. Way deep down, I longed for a friend, every time I looked in the mirror, the truth would always come. I would never make a friend. So why bother.

My grades were horrible; always barely passing. I turned papers in at the last minute. I assumed my grades were bad because the teachers didn't like me. It was something I always believed because nobody else liked me. What made them any different?

After sitting in lunch detention because of throwing grapes, we (as a class) went outside to have recess. I had to sit on the wall for ten minutes for my incident in the lunchroom. When the ten minutes were up, I ran to the first thing that would cause trouble.

"I want to play," I said wanting the new, red kick ball that everyone else wanted.

"No," answered a snotty nosed boy who held the new, red ball everyone wanted to play with.

"Give me the ball," I said angrily. Kids usually never fussed when I asked them to do something. Usually they just let me do whatever I wanted so they did not cause a fight. But some boys were crazy enough to face me.

"We were already playing with it first. Go find something else to play with." Someone else said. The girls looked at me cautiously wondering if a fight was going to break out.

"I said...give it!" I snatched the ball out of the snotty nose boy's hands.

"Hey! Give it back!" He reached for it; I pushed him to the ground. "I'm telling." He scrambled off the ground and stormed off to where the teachers were sitting.

"I don't care. Go ahead and tell you dumb ass," I yelled after him. I picked up the bad word from my dad. He used it a lot toward me, especially the b-word. My father's voice played through my mind. "You dumb ass. Your nothing but a bitch. Get out of my face before I hit you!" He threatened and sometimes he would actually hit me. But when he was drunk, he turned into a crazy, mad, psycho. His eyes would be angry and blood shot red. His body would shake with rage. Then he would start hitting me either with his fist, or a belt, whichever one he thought to use.

I shook off my dad's words. I had plans for him tonight. I took the ball and hid behind a tree. I sat down, pulled out a pocket knife that I had recently found on the street, and stabbed the ball multiple times so the teachers wouldn't be able to patch it up like they did the last time.

My heart looked exactly like the ball. My heart was stabbed by a hard life no else faced and ripped up by the unreal love of a family.

I slipped the knife in my pocket as silent tears spilled down my cheeks. I threw the ball away from me just as the teachers found me. That day, I was expelled.

When I got home my dad was furious. "You stupid, good for nothing brat," he spat at me. His breath smelled of beer and cigarettes. "Teachers tell me almost every day you get sent to the office and now you want to get expelled?" He put the beer bottle to his lips taking a swig. "They tell me I need to teach you how to behave." He paused putting the beer bottle on the table. "Come here."

"No." I said standing up to him. I was fed up with him being so mean to me and treating me like crap. I wasn't going to let him beat me anymore. My knife felt heavy in my pocket.

"Now!" He yelled stumbling toward me. I scrambled away from him, terrified. I tripped over the junk lying all on the floor. He stood over me and grabbed my mass of red curls. I screamed as he yanked me to my feet and threw me in the arm of the couch. I fell against it and onto the floor. "Get up! You little piece of shit," he yelled at me. Then kicked me in my fresh bruise that I just got yesterday by him punching me in my stomach.

I sucked in air not able to breathe. A groan escaped my lips. I let out a silent whimpered.

"I said get up!"

I started bawling.

"You are such a cry baby," he slurred. "I barely touched you. Stop faking!"

"I'm not!" I screamed.

"Oh, you want to talk back? Aagghh! You little shit!" He cursed. I couldn't believe I did it, I thought as I saw the pocket knife protruding from his leg. I quickly picked myself off of the floor and ran to the bathroom so I could lock the door so he couldn't come in. I stayed in the bathroom terrified, wondering why my own father would do this to me.

Since the day I stabbed my father, he no longer hit me. Instead he completely ignored me and avoided me which made me feel even lonlier. I no longer cared; I could take care of myself. I didn't need parents or anyone else, I thought lamely.