Scars Last Forever

Scars

Or some other witty name for a book that Abbie decided to write.

5/14/2011

Abbie

            This is my story, and it isn’t perfect, well I’m not perfect so my story isn’t either. You could say my life is a sad movie with pathetic music, but it is a little more interesting and the only music comes from your surroundings. I want to get lost in life; I’m turned around and heading in the wrong direction, though. I want to fall in love and find a guy who won’t betray me. Maybe it is a waste, maybe it is a journey, but all I know is that I’m ready to leap off this building. I don’t know who will catch me at the bottom.

            I hope someone will, though.

I guess when I was about seven or so, was when my mother started to antagonize me and create drama within my life. Maybe it was for the best what happened. I remember faintly about conversations with my sister, Emmaline.

            “Why couldn’t Momma be home?” I would ask after she had prepared yet another motherless meal, Emma would look at me and her eyes would become shiny and puffy.

            “She has got to make money so I can keep on cooking,” Emma would take my half finished plate and shove it in a mini fridge for my mom.

            “Why doesn’t she come home for us?” I looked into my sisters eyes, and felt the pain she hid. I shooed away the question, sorry I had ever asked. So I grew up with a sister (only four years older than me) that loved me more than my mother and father combined.

            “You have no care! Come home half clothed and skanky!” I’d hear the smack of skin and crying, then another and another. The first scar from my mom I definitely remember even though some people tried to drown it or spiff it up with bull.

            I was walking home from school on a calm day, should’ve known it was the calm before the tempest. I couldn’t gather the activities going on at the child daycare place, a block from my home. I would sometimes stand outside and dream about friends I would never have. I would have that day if it weren’t for the cops standing around the corner from the Fraise Inc. building, two stores down from the high-tech for my age daycare. They stood questioning a familiar man, literally a gentleman, who would cry if he stepped on an ant. None of my business, although.

            In the few minutes time to get to my house, I had slipped on a mud puddle, dirtying the back of my pant legs. I frowned and continued on, stepping onto the shabby, un-kept stairs which led into my rundown, ugly, previous mental institution apartment building. There was a quick breeze and I shivered as I couldn’t open the door quick enough. A man, about six feet tall and scrubby pushed open the door from the inside, I believe he lived down the hall from our apartment, but in the process of him opening the door and me trying to unsuccessfully get out of the way, the door handle hit my lip, which began to bleed. He apologized and offered to help me to my apartment. I declined, and said thank you.

I climbed the stairs, trying to delay the wrath from my drunken mother. I pushed open the door and wished I hadn’t. An old, creeper man was lying on top of my mother, she scrambled and tried to hide the evidence of her real life. I ran out the door, but not fast enough, she grabbed my left hip and yanked my skin off with her nails. It wasn’t punishment but just pure vengeance or spite. To this day I have a scar that I don’t even know exactly why it was given, embedded in me forever.

When I was twelve maybe thirteen my friends and I were the average group of girls in school. We were the joke of a lot of untold rumors. Untold to us that is, everyone except my friends and I knew about a dirty lie. My “best friend” in the seventh grade spread a lie that I was a lesbian and I was trying to get her to be my girlfriend. Um, proved them wrong, in a lot of ways.