the pouring rain because that’s the only way I’ll let go. Let go, of the only person on this earth who took care of me and loved me? I don’t know anybody that would. Crying so much that I think I cried myself to sleep. I did this for months until I learned to cry on the inside. Dame was going through the same feelings of loss,
how could he take care of me? He ain’t even eighteen yet. Grandma ALWAYS talked about God, praising him, thanking him, talking to him as if he was one of her oldest and dearest friends when she thought no one else was listening. I never cared for God much until the day of her funeral. I was begging, pleading and even trying to barter with him, on my knees on the rain-soaked concrete. I was waiting on my grandma to walk
out of that dark and dreadful place. She never did. I would give God another chance to prove himself
but no time soon.A couple of weeks later after grandma’s death I remember Dame telling me that we couldn’t stay in our house no more. The bank owned it, not us. He couldn’t afford to take it over and we would have to run away or the state of New York would become our family. I didn’t know what that meant
until I ended up in a group home. The day the social worker came to my school no one could stop her from taking me and Dame was in the streets somewhere. I shut down and found safety only inside of myself. I stay to myself at all times. If someone tries to talk to me, kids, adults, even my own social worker, I walk away. If I can’t walk away I stare off into space and let my mind wander off. After two weeks of doing this they wanted to have my head examined. A seven-thirty exam is what I heard them call it, like I was fucking crazy. Who wouldn’t be, I’ve been through some shit. They had my file; they knew I was a decent student, not
mute, not deaf, just dead on the inside. I was scared they might put me in the loony bin so I decided to open up a little for the social worker. She seems half decent. It wasn’t too long after this she told me that I might have a chance at ending up with a nice family. My age would be an issue she said but since I wasn’t raised in the system my behavior would be tame compared to some of the other teenagers. Anything had to be better then living with thieves, having my one pair of black and red suede Jordan’s and red and black Ed Hardy
tank top stolen. What more could they take from me? Of course they give you hand me downs but I felt
safe wearing clothes that were apart of my life before this. Those clothes reminded me of who I used to be. I used to laugh, I had friends, and I knew what it felt like to be loved and to love in return.
“Destiny will you give it a try? I have the ideal family in mind?”
“Where they live, they got kids?”
“They have a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights and yes they have two boys of their own. You would make their family complete. They really want a girl around.”
“How old are the boys?”
“I believe six and ten years old. Will that be a problem?”
“No just wondering. Is it a mom and a dad or what?”
“Yes, both parents live in the household. The mother works part-time outside of the home and the father is a pastor of a small congregation, Pastor John.”
ANSWERS
I hate my parents, why did I even exist. I know I have to be a mistake. I’m a bastard, the daughter of a junkie mother and a two-timing father. I’m not even mad at the fact that my mother was a dope-fiend, it’s the way she died that I am ashamed and disgusted by. Overdose? She couldn’t even get high right, fucking pathetic. My father is no damn better. Married with three kids, one on the way with his wife and me close behind with someone else. Loser. He deserved to die the way he did. Alone and bleeding out of multiple wounds until he was as empty as I am. At least Dame’s father tried to do right by my whore of a mother.
He probably crashed head on into something to get away from her ass. I know the damn story about
him losing control of the car but he probably did it on purpose. I hate my life.I need answers and the only place to start is where it all went down, Pain Street. Who would I talk to?My mother’s friends have probably moved away by now and my father wasn’t around long enough to make a dent or leave an impression. I don’t even know my grandparents, his mother and father and I’m sure they know nothing about me. Maybe
someone will recognize me, I’m much lighter than my mother but I’m sure she left her mark on me. Before I could open my mouth to ask for help, an old man started running his. He had a huge hanging bottom lip as pink as my tongue with one tooth hanging from the top of his mouth by a thread and began to laugh. He began clapping his hands as if applauding me which threw me off a little. What the fuck does this weirdo want?
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