graffiti (completed)

One.

Every living thing has it's own story. Every human on this earth has loved something and has lost something, big or small. The times you see a person, and instantly judge them based on appearance or behavior, you have to remember--there's something that changed, molded, and warped them, into what they are today. Maybe you think their past wasn't that bad, that they're overreacting--but it's less of 'what', and more of 'how'. How they reacted, how it all went down. Everything that ever went on slowly built up into the person you see. Believe it or not, there's a reason for everything.

It took a few seconds for everything to register when my eyes opened, considering the new surroundings. It was pretty quiet, besides the sound of birds outside, and the sun filtered through the window, bits of dust swirling within each ray. My hands still had leftover paint, and I was still in the clothes from last night, meaning I needed to take a shower. I didn't like how noiseless the house seemed, considering most times it was completely silent in a place, for me, something bad had happened. Or someone left.

I stripped from my clothes and turned the shower on, the warm water and steam surrounding me. I just stood there for a while, taking in everything, before actually starting to wash.

We should start from the beginning, right?

My actual, legitimate mother was extremely young when she had me--fourteen, to be exact. My father was a year older, as far as I know. That was one of the only things I knew about him. She got support from my grandparents when for the first few years, but eventually we were on our own. She managed by working two jobs, as a waitress and a maid, and we lived in a tiny apartment, stuck in a neighborhood not many would approve of. My mother always came home with a smile on her face, smelling of pan-seared steak or apple cobbler, on other days like Clorox or Soft Scrub. She had never shown how sad she was, or how tired she was, or anything of that sort. She didn't want me to see her pain. And so I never did.

She was twenty-one when it all happened. I was seven, mathletes.  The day before, my father had swung by. Being I had only seen him three times or so, the jerk, he was still a stranger to me, and when he came toward me and picked me up, I squirmed, and called for my mom. She saw him, and told me to go to my room. I wish, with every fiber of my being, that I would've known what they said to each other. What they yelled to each other. Maybe I could've saved her.

The walls were thin, where I had lived, and I heard her crying that night. I had asked her why, and she told me to go to bed. You know, one of those You're a small child you wouldn't understand kind of things. I didn't think about it in the morning, when she kissed me on the forehead and walked me to the bus stop. "You're a beautiful girl, Casey. You can do whatever you want when you grow up, and I'll be proud either way, okay?" I nodded, not knowing why she was talking so much. "I love you, and I always will."

"I love you too," I had said, and we hugged, longer than she'd ever hugged me before. As though she was holding on one last time.

When I came home, it was completely silent. She would play latin sometimes, dance to it as she washed leftover dishes and warmed up or cooked dinner. It was the day my mom worked as a waitress, and so there was some food on the counter, still warm. "Mom, is this for me?" I remember asking, with no response.

"Mom?" I had repeated, thick silence still being the reply. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach as I walked toward her room and slowly opened the door. She looked like she was sleeping.

Her chest still rose and fell. There were sleeping pills on the dresser, too. So, that's what I thought had happened, at first. But, when I tried to wake her up, she didn't respond. I had tried, for a while, and eventually had called the number I was told to call in trouble, and the ambulance came, and took her away. They gave me to my father after that. I never saw her again.