We're Mostly Good

He put his nasty hands on me- again. I locked my door, but he broke the lock. I didn't where my mother was, chances are she was either stoned, passed out, or off in lala land like she always was. He was on something, and any more I couldn't tell what it was he and my mother took. Once he broke the lock, I just stayed on my mattress. I probably should have tried to move or run away, but I froze as if the whole world was in slow motion. It was the same thing all the time- this slow-motion, him groping at me like I was his personal doll. Then eventually, I would wake up and kick him in the balls. He would get pissed off would toss me to the wall and leave. It was okay. Pain is really only a state of mind. If it happens enough to you, you just get used to it. What's the point in crying about it anyway? But that night, last night (in more ways than one) was different.

He came at me. I sat there and watched him stagger with this hungry look in his eyes. He was like a living zombie. He put his hands on me, pawed at my shirt. My scissors were on the floor. I have a "dream book." I collect old magazines from the medical clinic, hospitals and the church I go to and cut out all the things I like- pictures and phrases and whatever else and paste them in ten-for-a- dollar spiral-bound notebooks. I have been doing this since I was eleven maybe twelve. I kept the entire stack in a small box in my closet. As he lay on top of me, I grabbed the scissors and without thinking, I shoved the scissors in his neck. I expected blood, but it only oozed out like when you squeeze toothpaste with the cap on. He stood up and staggered again. Bitch, slut, whore, and all sorts of other pleasantries came out of his mouth. I got up and shoved him out the window. The glass broke as he went over the edge and splatted below.

No one was on the street, at least not at the moment. My window faced an alley and the brick wall of the building next door. We have lived here for only three months. I wish we could have moved somewhere else. But, it's always the same song and dance. We live in some crap hole apartment in some seedy part of town until we don't pay rent then we find some other crack hole to live in. Crack hole is probably too nice. I tried applying for one of those government places, but since mother had to go to the welfare office and sign the papers, it never got done. But if it came to money, then somehow she would get out of her stupid drug stupor put on the only decent dress she owned and go to the welfare office.

I had enough of this. This life. Her stupid boyfriends. Her. But I didn't kill him for that reason. I don't like to think of myself as a killer but that is what I am. It took a short lifetime of touches that weren't wanted and two seconds running on instinct and I became a killer. Honestly, I don't mind being a killer because he deserved it. They all did, but he was the one there at that moment. I had every intention of becoming emancipated. I got a job and worked hard in school. Pastor Tim was going to help with all the legal stuff. I was going to be better than this life. I had to be better than this life. I was sixteen, so I could be tried as an adult. I did kill this guy. It was self-defense. But I knew better. People from my neighborhood didn't get to kill someone in self-defense, even it was self-defense. I wondered if they would believe me. Some people would think I was just a kid. I didn't know, and I didn't want to stick around and find out. I had no plan of action. I grabbed all my clothes and some of my dream books and stuffed them in the duffel bag. I took my bookbag.

Mother was passed out on the stained and beaten down couch. The neighbors screamed at each other. Apparently, someone was a cheating whore. Of course, this was nothing new. When you live in places like this long enough, these sounds and fights become peaceful. There is no such thing as quiet. Mother always kept the welfare money in her underwear drawer. I went in and saw there was a whopping hundred bucks. With my cash savings, I had five hundred dollars to leave. Still no cops or sirens, I knew I had time. I called Pastor Tim and we met at the youth center.