To Which I Am Broken

My Imperfect Perfect Life

No one likes school and if you do, your crazy. School is like prison, with officers patrolling the halls and the warden dealing your punishment for breaking a rule, being forced to do thinks you don't want. Like math. Mental abuse to humans, is what my 8th grade teacher used to call it. At least in this prison you can wear makeup and such.
My name is Amaris Jacobson and this is my ride of a story.
I guess it started a few days before school started where I would be going into my sophomore year at Cibola Highschool ...joy... You see, my parents have been divorced since I was like 5 and it's been an annoyance for years. My parents never talk, and when the do their conversations are made up of short choppy sentences and icy glares. When my dad married my step mom, Kim "Kandi" Evans, it got real intense between the two sides of my family. I can't complain anyway, people have it worse. 

My mom was into marijuana, vodka, bingo, and gambling....and food, she would come home from the casino reeling of the stuff. I hated it. My step dad, Dick Ryder, unfortunate name, I know, was okay, quiet and easily pushed around. He was a drinker as well, a fan of vodka like my mom, but I've never seen him truly hammered before, so far he's an okay drunk, nothing to worry about. My mom is well...my mom. She is lazy and a very big girl, she doesn't pay much attention to me or my other siblings unless we did something wrong or she wanted us to do something she was too lazy to do herself. So, add neglectful to the list of things wrong with her. Neither me or my younger brother enjoyed staying with her, even if it was only a week untill we say dad again. But we had no say in the matter.

Now, my dad is good. He works (my,mom doesn't) and actually does stuff with us instead of kicking us to the living room or our bedrooms while he did something. My step mom, Kim, is beautiful and sweet. She has a sassy but quiet personality and an "I-dont-give-a-shit-about-you" kind of aditude to those who deserve it otherwise, she has a kind, loving face that can turn cold, emotionless, and tense at a moment's notice. I loved her almost more then my biological mom. Hell! I even call her mom.

Anyway, it was August 14, 2018, and me and my brother where hanging out in the couch in the living room, watching some TV show about these people trapped under an invisible force field type thing. I didn't care much for it. It was boring in all honesty, the story moved too slow for it to be interested for long. My brother was curled up next to me, snuggling into my hoodie as he watched a plane crash into the force field thing. He looked at me with wide green eyes that held wonder and innocence only a 5 year old could possess.
"'Maris?" I looked down at him and smiled.
"Jack?" I asked teasingly. Jack crinkled his nose at my teasing, but otherwise ignored it.
"Why didn't Mama come home last night?" I tensed and forced a warm smile. Great, now what do I say?
"Umm...well, she...," I struggled to make an excuse, "she had a sleepover!" I said. Jack gave me a confused glance.
"Grown ups don't have sleepovers." He said.
I winced. Damn.
"Well, mom does," I said, "with her friend. Her best friend," I added with a slight sneer. He nodded.
"M'kay." I let out a silent sigh. He bought it.
We stayed like that, in silence for a while longer before I heard softly snores. I looked at Jack quickly and smiled softly. He looked innocent, carefree, happy.
I frowned. He was strong for his age, emotionally anyway. He's been through Mom's abuse and neglect, her hurtful words. I was never that strong. At the tender age of 3 I learned to never cry, to never ask for things, do everything Mom said, and not to fight with her. I don't remember the last time I felt respect or love for my sorry excuse of a mother. He didn't have to go through that. Because I was there to protect him. I sighed again, this time in pain and hurt instead of relief.
We've been through too much. Way to much. But, I reasoned with myself, I wouldn't change it for the world.