Pup

Living On the Edge

Hey there. I'm Alita Ackerman. Just your everyday Harlem girl, who has a drug addict and drug dealer father, and an alcoholic mother. Believe it or not, I'mma mix of white and black. My white mother, Brittany, and my black father, Morgan.

CRASH!

There goes another glass cup... Sorry 'bout all the noise. My parents are always fightin', and it's hella annoyin'... We on the East side of Harlem where everythin' ain't always that great. My life now ain't too bad, I mean, I have a roof over my head, I get good grades, I get three meals a day... Ya get it, but my life ain't perfect either. Try livin' with a mother who constantly drinks and a father who smokes and sells dope. It's REALLY hard. I can hear these two all the way from my room. I'm on the second floor, and they're in the kitchen downstairs.

"HOW THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN MY HUSBAND?!"

"HOW THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN MY WIFE?!"

This is the fifth time today they been at each other's throats... Seriously, I'm like, livin' on the frickin' edge 'cause of them. Sometimes they go as far as to drag me into their fights... No, thank you. You two gotta figure out your problems on your own. I am NOT your marriage counselor.

"THAT'S IT! I'M LEAVIN'!"

"FINALLY, SOMETHIN' WE CAN BOTH AGREE ON!"

...What... what did I just...?

"AND I'M TAKIN' ALITA WITH ME!"

"LIKE HELL YOU ARE! ALITA IS STAYIN' RIGHT HERE WITH ME!"

I wanna stay with both of you... Please don't split up... please...

"ALITA!"

When both of them call my name at the same time, it means they want to discuss somethin' important...

I got up from my bed and headed downstairs the kitchen to see my parents waiting for me. They saw me and instantly turned around to see me.

"Alita, honey... Your father and I have somethin' to tell you..." Momma said in a quiet voice.

I always called my mother Momma or Ma, and my father Dad or Daddy.

"Y'all getting a divorce... I heard..." I said.

My parents looked at each other with concerned looks, but their looks soon turned into glares.

"We called ya 'cause we want ya to pick on who ya wanna stay with. Me... or ya boozehead of a mother." Dad said.

"BOOZEHEAD!? YOU SHOULD BE THE LAST ONE TALKIN', MISTER DRUG DEALER!" Ma screamed.

In a split second, World War III started. I looked back and forth between my bickering parents. I felt tears begin to flow down my cheek.

Why...?

I then clasped my hands over my ears to block out their yelling and screaming.

These guys are like police sirens, ambulance sirens, and firetruck sirens mixed together in one.

They were too busy arguing that they forgot that I was standing right in front of them.

I can't take this anymore...

I ran upstairs and went in my room. I grabbed my backpack and started stuffing it with clothes.

I can't stay here anymore... I can't stay with my dad, or my mom... I love 'em, but...

When my bag was full, I zipped it up, grabbed my phone, and went back downstairs. The tears just flowed down my face. My parents were yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs. I sat down on the stairs and took out a piece of paper and pencil. I began to write about how I feel about my parents fighting; amongst themselves, in front of me, and about them splitting up. When I was done, I walked towards the front door, and left the note on the side table. I looked back at my parents one last time before heading out the door.

Love ya guys...