Searching for Love

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

            Love. How can one simple single-syllable word be so difficult to fulfill? I thought love was supposed to be an all-powerful force that anyone can see and comprehend at any given time. I see now that I was utterly and completely wrong.

            As I mope down the hallway on my way to biology, one thought haunts me: no one loves you. Who could ever love a special needs child? I hear the kids talk. "Retarded"  doesn't even begin to describe how I feel. Try rejected, insignificant, worthless.

            I stop at my locker and see my hypocritical "friends". From the outside, they seem perfect. Pretty, popular, perfect. But they all have terrible secrets. They wear masks. Emotional masks to cover up the fact that they are just like me; abused, mistreated, searching for love.

            I walk into the classroom, my hood over my head and my backpack weighed down. I find a seat in the far back. I open my book so it looks like I'm participating, but my thoughts are in a whole other reality.

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 (Flashback Sequence)

            "Daddy you don't look so good." I said as my father walked in our wannabe "home". His clothes were ripped and wrinkled, his hair moussied up and his breath smelled of alcohol. "Don' worry bout it darlin," he said, "no need to worry your innocent 5-year ole' mind about nuthin."

 

            He patted me on the head a little too hard and waddled off into the kitchen. I followed him for I was concerned. "Daddy, why do you smell funny?"

 

"I tole' you not to worry about it!" he said in a tone on the border of yelling. "But daddy, I-", I started to say, but he was already walking towards me with fire in his eyes. "Daddy please, not again! I didn't mean anything; honest!"

 

            I tried to wiggle my way out of what was yet to come, but I saw that it was no use. A long shadow was cast across my face as a hand followed like a ghost. I went flying across the room. I had taught myself not to cry, for crying was for "unstable" children. But this pain was almost unbearable.

 

            I looked up just in time to see the same ghostly shadow followed by the same drunken hand. Again, the tears welled up inside of me but I forced them down. "Not here," I told myself, "not now."

 

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            "Sydney Dawson." My daytime nightmare was interrupted by Mrs. Brown, my biology teacher. "Sydney, will you please tell us the answer to number 7?" "Number seven?" I asked softly. "I-I don't know." I shift down in my seat as all the kids laugh. To my dismay, Mrs. Brown can't help but giggle either. There was no number 7.