Home {H.S.}

Chapter 1

The last good memory I had of my mother was my fifth birthday. It was just her and I living in Seattle, my father non-existent since her second trimester. I never asked to see pictures because I knew that would change nothing, which was strange for a 5 year old to understand.

My mother overdosed on heroin in the spring of 2004 in our one bedroom apartment. It was a rainy day, typical in Seattle, when I found her pale and sweaty on the bathroom floor. The last time I saw my mother, she was being rushed to the hospital in a towering ambulance. I watched the dripping truck drive away until the social worker, her name was Angela, I think, gripped my shoulder and told me to come with her. Eleven years later and I'm realizing now that going with Angela was worse than seeing my mother die.

The pain from my mothers death faded quickly as most mourning does in a young child, a few months and I was onto new experiences. However, the pain of living in five different group homes in 11 years is a hurt that won't dissolve. This is only true for one reason: I can't run. I can't get away or hide or even stop caring. Being an orphan is the only thing I will ever be. I'm no longer that innocent, naive little five year old girl, no matter how badly I wish I was.

Enough of my backstory, I'll explain a little about me. I'm 16, just turned actually in April. My name is Dakota Mayfield. I'm an Aries, if that means anything to you, and I'm a rebellious bitch per my numerous social workers and "troubled teen care providers". The group home I am in now is in Seattle and is called "A Home for New Beginnings." Bull shit. They just throw us in here to make a quick buck, get a little bit of satisfaction from our endless discontent, and then label us "rebellious and unwilling to conform" and send us on to a second, third, fourth, or millionth home. The most I've ever heard a girl go through was 23 homes. She was 15.

This group home was different. It was a Co-Ed home, meaning boys and girls both lived here. The more, the merrier I guess. Pretty stupid if you ask me, just asking for unprotected sex and raging hormones AKA horny ass teenagers. This didn't interest me though, boys that were like me were gross. I stayed to myself anyways.

I've been here for three days and so far, I've spoken twice. Both times to ask to be excused from dinner.

I shared a room with four other girls. Ashley, an intelligent but manipulative narcissist; Nicole, a "drug addict" who is in here because her parents couldn't stop her from smoking the devils lettuce; Leanne, the only other shy girl in the home; and Morgan, a girl with a big personality and an even bigger attitude. I haven't gotten on her bad side yet though so I should be alright.

"What are you doing?" Morgan asks me, almost on cue. "Oh, um, what do you mean?" I stuttered not meeting her eyes. God it sucked to be socially awkward.

"I mean, why are you staring? You do know that's rude, right? I guess you're parents never taught you that, huh?"

"I don't have parents so, no, they didn't. Sorry. " I replied, finally meeting her eyes. Her hair was greasy and she had faded pink bangs hanging over her right side.

"Excuse me, bitch? I'm gonna warn you now, that type of sarcastic ass attitude will not last long with me. Trust me." Morgan spat out the final syllables of her threat as she pointed a finger in my face.

"Okay, sorry." I mumbled, surrendering. I had a few other words I would have been very happy to share, but my better judgement decided against it. Instead, I walked out of the room to go explore the house.

It was a two story home with few windows, all locked with a master key. The boys stayed downstairs and the girls upstairs. One adult stayed upstairs with the girls, her name was Megan, she was nice enough. The other adult stayed downstairs with the boys, his name I hadn't learned yet. There were 12 teens in this home. 7 girls and 5 boys. None of them showed any potential or promise. Shocker.

I walked into the kitchen where two boys were talking. They looked very rugged, probably not taking care of their hygiene since the fourth grade when mentors came around to teach us proper tooth brushing technique. Yes, they come through group homes too.

I looked through all the bathrooms, none nicer than the one before, but I couldn't complain because they worked. After my tour I went back up to the room. The only good thing about these homes is they let you use a phone after the age of 14. You have do volunteer work for it, of course, but it's worth it. Without the music and distractions of youtube, this hell I live in would be truly inescapable.

For now, I put my headphones in, picked a song, and closed my eyes. I daydreamt of 30 year old Dakota. A Dakota with a husband and kids, a miserable 9 to 5 job, and some tangible amount of sanity. Thoughts like these are the only comfort available to lull me to sleep.