The Fire in Our Souls

Good Riddance

What do we do when the world is against us? Our friends hate us, our parents deserted us, we are alone. Scream into a pillow, throw things against the wall, blast music, anything to cope with the feelings that won't disappear. No matter what, they won't. 

"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." -John Lennon

I don't remember much of my childhood. I don't have pictures of opening presents on Christmas, no sacred gifts I keep behind lock and key. I don't have any happy memories with my parents or my siblings. Nothing.

As I lay in the bed, the comforter scratchy and worn but the sheets are warm and soft and smell like low-grade detergent. I'm thankful for a bed, I'm thankful to see the light shining through the curtains, illuminating the dust on the table. I curl up under the covers, taking in every bit of the warmth. I've been in many beds in my life. Friends who lend a hand every once and a while, some one night stands, but hotel beds are something different. I never had a bed of my own, no bedroom filled with posters on the walls, a closet to hang my clothing, I had nothing...I still have nothing. 

Growing up how I did, it leaves permanent scars on you. Both physically and within your soul. I remember the bad parts, all of the bad parts. The bad always outweighs the good. 

Slamming doors. Harsh screams. The crash as the glass breaks on the floor. I remember that the most. I'd hide in the closet at the end of the hall, my hands over my ears as I tried anything to drown them out. My parents fought a lot, fought over money, over food, over living. They fought about anything and everything they could. And then they would stop, and things would be okay, but only for a moment. As I got older, it only got worse but easier to escape from. Instead of hiding in the hall closet, I jumped out the back window and ran off to whatever house was having a party that day. 

~

"You want a hit?" The joint is passed around the group on the couches. The puffs of smoke hide us from everyone. The name 'pothead' never bothered me much, it was more like my superpower. I was the one who always had weed, ability to get alcohol. It was easy. I stole my mom's ID all the time, mainly because I looked just like her. The clerk at my usual store never questioned it, sometimes he doesn't even check it. Weed is easier to obtain than alcohol, unregulated and easier to come by. Especially in California. 

I watch as the joint is passed from person to person, each taking their hit, but it always ends the same. Someone took too many hits and gets up to leave, another can't stop coughing so they get up from the couch. And sooner or later, I'm left on the couch alone, no one to talk to, just me and my joint. I watch as everyone else parties, playing flip cup on the counter, beer pong on the table, kissing in the corner or a couple heading up the stairs to fuck. Then there's me, blowing my smoke up to the ceiling, watching as it disperses into the air and disappears. I wish I could do that. Float up high above everyone and everything, and just disappear into the stars. 

~

"What are you doing?" The words stop me in my tracks, well, in the midst of climbing through the windowsill. I look up, my birth giver stands in the doorway. I don't give her the satisfaction of my mother because she was never one. She never acted like a mom. Mother's are supposed to give you love, support, care. She never did that, she was never that type. "Get in here before your father hears you. You know what will happen." She pulls me inside and shuts the window as quiet as possible. "Don't worry, he's probably still passed out on the couch. After he gave you that shiner on your eye." I point as I stumble past her. "You're drunk?" She questions, if I saw her face, I'd see more disappointment that I'm slowly turning into my father instead of being his punching bag. "And a little high." I laugh and fall back on my futon. It was cheaper than a bed and stolen from a frat house. Since my bed used to be the floor, this is an upgrade. 

"Are you stupid? If he finds out your not only drunk but also high? Do you know what he'll do?" She stands in the middle of the room, her hushed tones on purpose in order to keep him passed out on the couch. "Yeah, he'll check his liquor supply and make sure no one stole any, and probably forget about the weed since I also did not take that from him." I lean up on my elbow, kicking my boots to the floor and turning away from her. She sighs, quiet enough that she thinks I don't hear. But I know, I hear the disappointment in her sigh, I see it in her eyes. She doesn't want me to turn into him, but I would rather die than turn into either of them. He's a drunk and she gets hit, it doesn't matter what it's over or who misplaced what, it's always the same. She fucks up, he hits her, I fuck up, I get hit. Best way not to get hit is to not be home. One day, I won't be, ever again. 

~

"Tell me why I shouldn't throw you to the curb?" He paces back and fourth as I sit on the couch. I say nothing. He runs his fingers through his hair. "God Callie, tell me why I should kick you to the fucking curb?" He stops, staring at me now. "I'm seventeen years old, you could kick me to the curb if you wanted to. Would be better than this place." He lunges to me, I instinctively bring my knees to my chest, pushing my head down and covering it. He grabs me, pulling me up by my arms and throwing me to the floor. Before I can comprehend where I am in the room, a swift kick to the ribs. I feel all of the air escape my lungs, breathless. I say nothing as I feel another blow to my legs and again on my stomach. In seconds, it's over. The room goes quiet. I bite my lip so hard, there's blood in my mouth. "Maybe that will teach you to shut your dirty mouth." He spits as he walks to the back room. The only thing lighting up the room is the street lamp on the corner. I lay there for a moment, not moving, not breathing. 

I gather myself, grabbing the corner of the wall for support. I stand, but not upright, enough to hobble to my futon and slump over. Two more weeks and I'm out. Two more weeks and I'll be a legal adult, able to leave on my own terms, find my own happiness away from this dump, away from them. And the best part is, they can't try and have the cops find me, can't file a report on someone who doesn't want to be found. A legal adult at the age of eighteen. Once that day comes, I'm gone. 

~

I've had my things packed for weeks. Hidden away in part of the wall that comes off in the hall closet. I found it over years of hiding there during their fights. A small duffle, full of everything I own. I know he hides cash in a lock box in his closet. Tomorrow night, he'll be gone, on a bender with his friends. He doesn't come back for hours and if he does, he's too drunk to notice. I have money saved up from working dumb jobs, stuff they don't know about. Since I was old enough to understand what was happening, I planned to get out, and I've saved every penny, minus using it on some weed here and there. It was all for this moment, the moment I leave this place and never look back. 

I wait the right amount of time. I wait until I'm sure he's gone and way too trashed to walk in when I'm in the midst of my escape. She was gone, working her life away at the hospital. Where all her money went into his drinking problem. I sit and I wait. The only sound is the clock ticking on the wall. I sit in silence, the street lamp outside is the only way to see the clock on the wall. The way the seconds pass, every second closer to my departure. 

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. 

It's midnight, my birthday. I run to the closet, pulling apart the wooden boards that hide my duffle. I pull it out, not even putting the boards back. I want them to know I'm gone. In the closet, the top shelf to the right, behind old clothes and dust is the lock box. It needs a key to the lock hanging on the outside, I never noticed. I run to the kitchen, pulling the drawers open for anything I can use to pop it open. I stand on a chair to look in the cabinet above the fridge. An old, dusty screwdriver lays on top of the fridge, the mark is left with a perfect outline of dust. 

Holding the box from the top, I hear the sound of the broken lock and jack it open. Wads of cash, rolled together by rubber bands. I stuff all of it in the duffle, taking one last moment in the middle of the kitchen. This is it, this is finally it. The moment I leave this place forever. I'll never come back to this. The dust covered counters, glass in the corner of the room, dented walls and empty cabinets. 

I rummage through the drawers, looking for any paper to write on. I need one last thing before I go, to let them know I'm never coming back. I find a small piece of paper and a sharpie, scribbling down the last thing they will ever hear from me. 

Good Riddance.