Finding Faith

Finding Faith

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WpMetadataReadOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Wed, Jul 23, 2014
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Fiction
Social Themes
I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up my friend. My name is Hope. Yet how ironic is that. I live in Brighton, England. I have no choice but to live with my unsober abusive father. yay me! Every night before I go to bed, I say a silent prayer, hoping my father burns in hell. Because that's the only thing I'm able to do, Hope. Chapter 1 Faith? My father always told me stories about my sister and my mum. They live in LA, which sadly is in the US. I don't know much of anything about my sister, except that I miss her. She is my feternal twin, so I assume she looks somewhat like me. My parents got into a divorce when we were only 2 years old. That was 11 years ago, I've been covered in bruises ever since I have plenty of friends at my school.Except I've heard from plenty of rumors, they aren't my real friends. They point out my bruised cheek, my scared wrists, and the cresent moon prints on my arm from the hundreds of times my father dug his nails into my arms.
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#85
runaways
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I was kicked around like trash on the streets. I was the book that nobody could understand or read, but without a care, they were quick to rip out the pages. I screamed for attention, but time after time, I was ignored. Nobody noticed me, so I made myself at home in my own shadow. They say there's light at the end of the tunnel -- I searched and searched for it, but it could never be found. Therefore, I lost hope as I hid in the shade and endured what seemed like everlasting pain. The little hope I did have was snatched from my arms. My baby brother was my life, and they took my glimpse of hope away. Home. Is that a word? Maybe for a family of some kind, but for me, I never had a place to call home. I moved from place to place. Unstable foster care, fighting for my life in group homes, barely surviving in detention centers, and running away from being mistreated as I made many benches my temporary home. The only thing that I was familiar with was a black plastic bag containing my dirty rags. I am too young to know what it feels like to survive. These are the cards life has dealt me and I am not meant to win; however, I easily lose without trying. It is hard for me to find peace. I am paying for my mother's reckless actions. I am trapped in a world where the sun has died because I am unable to feel love. I am unable to dream. Sorrow is my aura, and the sadness hugs me. My eyes are closed shut by the barbed wire fence from my eyelashes as they prohibit tears from falling. I am damaged. When will the morning come? Did the sun put up a fight last night, like I do every single day? If I can survive the day, I know the sun isn't dead. One day, I will awake to a glorious sunrise. Until then, I hope my brother keeps blowing his pinwheel, and I will keep making wishes with every dandelion I come across. For now, all I know is that everything was taken from me, and the only thing I own is my name.

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