being a manson girl.

on the road again

*DISCLAIMER* this story is supposed to be somewhat of linda's, but has been modified to fit what I want of this version of the story.

my home life was a disaster and i was growing tired of it. it wouldn't be the first time to run away, but then again, i technically never actually went home. it was a visit. packing your things and leaving is actually quite easy; it's the not turning around as you walk away that's tough, 'cause if you do look back, you're tempted to go back. you grow doubtful, nostalgic, and a deep remorse begins to grow inside of you. it starts inside of your stomach, then continues to stab you in the heart, until finally it numbs your brain, sending your emotions spiraling. but the worse part about the remorse, it starts off as you feeling bad for yourself, then it developes into you growing a hunger for wanting something permanent.

the remorse happens because you want something you cant have from somebody, somebody you loved, or even thought you needed in life.

so that's why i left my two husband's and one of my kids, and that's why i was now leaving. a friend of mine, catherine, she's taking me and my daughter tayna to Los Angeles; the land of the lost angels.

so as i stepped out of my damned father's house, and scramble with my daughter in arms, rushing out to catherine's yellowish buggie, i ignored his pleads. i knew he didn't actually care. he just didn't want anything to happen to his blessed granddaughter, he couldn't care less about his first-born, and only child. i threw my one and only bag into the backseat, and secure tayna in her seat.

as i stepped into the front seat (i was surprised that catherine even owned a car), my hair a-flying and emotions a-blaze, catherine looked at me smuggly, and offered me a joint, to which i gladly took, holding in between the pointer finger and thumb of my left hand, as i lit. at that point, the two of us began laughing, and she was off on the road, wind blowing through the windows, and a song by the beetles which i thought called healter skelter .

as catherine began to poke fun at the idea of me leaving, frequently and as heart-breaking as that exit, was a normal occurrence for me. to that point i laughed, and agreed, but i couldn't help but to remember the first time i ever ran away and married. sixteen i was. i could only imagine as my mom's second husband beat her drunkenly, over and over, and by the next morning, they both acting as if it never happened, as if the bruises and gashes covering her hopeless and fragile body were nothing. and that's why i left. i had enough of those gruesome images, and enough of watching my mother act defenseless against some 250 pound bull dog.

and now i'm here, the third time i've left. once a group of a pathetic fostered children, plus some, whom i was supposed to be proud of and call a family. in reality, they were all a bunch of lost causes who all had to share the small 3-bedroom apartment. then there was my first own family, who i was only apart of because i was a desperate little girl who accidentally got pregnant, and then my second husband, and now my own "father," who had walked out on my mom and me when i was just that of a little girl. now here i am, smoking a joint with my only trusted companion, on the road again, listening to the beetles and staining my cheeks with my own salty tears, and god damn i'm sick of being weak.

but i feel like this time, i'll find a better home. my forever family. the place i go to when i feel down and defeated, and these people will help me through it, and i will do the same for them.