The Book I'll Never Write

Chapter: The one with memories

I remember when I was little, my mom and dad took my siblings and I to the renaissance festival. I didn't know it at the time, but that would be the last trip we took together as a family. The most vivid memory, and honestly, the only one I remember at all, was when my dad bought me a stuffed animal. I was so happy and excited, I ran out to show my mom. She looked so genuinely happy.

I remember the day my mother left for the first time. My dad told us she went to stay with my grandparents for a while to "Figure some things out." I could tell he was hiding something, but I didn't say a word. She was gone for weeks. No calls, no e-mails, nothing. I felt extremely guilty, and I still don't know why. Then, she came back. She didn't say a whole lot, just that we needed to pack. So, my mom drags us away from everything we've ever known. She rips us from our father, and our friends, and our home. We stayed with my aunt first, then with my grandma, until we found a place of our own.

It was a little town-home thing, that only had three rooms. It was infested with bugs, and was really worn down, but it was ours.

I was about 10 years old when we lived there, maybe 11. My mom was gone a lot, either working or trying to find another man. My older sister was busy with school and trying to console our mom when she came home alone. So, I cooked and cleaned, and tried my best to make sure everyone got everything first. I always let my siblings and my mother get food first, a habit I still have today, and just ate whatever was left. We were pretty poor. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from male cousins or my sister. Nothing fit me right, and I always smelled like cigarette smoke because my mom smoked in the house.

I got made fun of a lot. I was an easy target. I was the shy new kid and I didn't have the best clothes or the best hair. I got beat up almost daily. I never hit back though, at least not when they hit me. But there were a few times when someone would shove my brother, or hit him. Let me just tell you, that never ended well. I beat the life out of anyone who dared to touch him, but never when he was around. My brother was never one for violence.

Like I said, I took care of everyone. I made sure everyone was fed and bathed, sometimes I'd go for days without eating, and I usually ended up with a cold shower. I was slowly falling into a depression, but I was so focused on making sure everyone else was safe that I didn't notice or care.

Then, after countless nights of my mother coming home with random guys (who sometimes even leered at or flirted with my sister and I) she came home with a man named Michael. We all loved him, he was nice, and funny and friendly. Pretty soon, we were spending the night at his house, which was a little trailer in a trailer park. Michael listened to his music really loud, which, for a 12 year old who was just getting into rock and heavy metal and alternative, was really cool. He had tattoos and piercings. Really, we all liked him quite a bit. He spoiled us too, and constantly bought us candy and gifts.

My mother married Michael shortly after meeting him, which I never understood. I never thought you could be so sure you love somebody enough to commit that quickly (I know now though, that sometimes you just know.) and considering I had been through one divorce, I didn't want to witness another. But, I was young, and so blinded by the idea that true love exists that I figured that's what it was.

It was a small wedding, in my grandparents back yard. It was cute, and sweet, and very country. Michaels three kids were there as well, along with my cousins and my siblings. It was a pretty fun event if I'm being honest. There was cake, and I got to just ignore everyone for the most part. When it ended, the kids all went home and the adults went out to drink. My siblings and I stayed up late watching tv and hanging out, it was a good day.

Shortly after, we began to realize Michael wasn't as great as we had thought. He got drunk and yelled a lot, and tended to break things and essentially throw a fit. Every time he did, it was blamed on his PTSD, and not talked about. He's done it quite a lot, and I could tell you a lot about them all, but the most memorable times are burned into my brain like someone branding an animal. Every detail is seared into my consciousness, and I can't seem to forget them.

One of those times, is my 12th birthday. We were having a good time, we had eaten cake and I was opening presents. Michael had been drinking some, and had a beer set on our little coffee table. My older sister and a friend were goofing off and she accidently knocked that beer over... and he got pissed. He threw the bottle across the room, having it shatter on the walls and spray what was left in it onto the floor. Then he stormed into his room and slammed the door. But it doesn't end there, because at about 11:30 he started screaming about how it was his house and he could do whatever he wanted. He then procedurally came into every room, and turned on every light. One thing he said stood out though, for obvious reasons. He said "I don't care if it's her birthday, if she doesn't like it she can leave."

I felt terrible. It was terrifying, I was shaking and crying. That night my siblings and I ended up running out of the house screaming, terrified. We called a family friend and stayed at her house for a bit. Eventually, my mom came to get us, saying he was asleep and that we could come home. I didn't want to honestly. But we did, and I didn't sleep that night. It was never talked about again.

You know, he's done so much worse. From screaming at me one Christmas and yelling that it was my fault his holiday was ruined, to trying to look into my shirt repeatedly another one. And yet, I still don't think he's an evil person. He's done a lot of terrible things, but I don't think he's evil. I mean hell, I'd forgive him if he ever apologized. But he never did, and there were too many things he did for me to forget about. But I'm moving on with my life.

In a way, I'm kind of thankful for him. I mean, if it wasn't for the things I went through, I wouldn't be where I am now. I wouldn't have moved back in with my dad, and I wouldn't be nearly as happy as I am now. Because of that, I met the love of my life, and I rekindled my friendship with my best friend; who i've been friends with since kindergarten. So really, I'm pretty thankful he came into my life.