Hello, Mr. Darcy #NewAdult

Take Me Away

Chapter 2

It is easy to give up on life when people are constantly looking down on you as if you are less than dirt, and the people who supposedly care for you do not give a shit about you. When the government's compensation couldn't even change their hearts-- or whatever they have in place of it.

I never knew my parents. From what I've heard about my mother, she was an Afro-Cuban hooker killed by her pimp when she tried to run away with me only six months after my birth. As my mother's pimp described, my father was a white man with blonde hair and striking green eyes. They say he must have been one of her "clients." I heard he was passing through town when they were together and could never be located again. The pimp in question was currently in prison and unwilling to discuss my mother and father.

For all I knew, I was a product of a messed-up system. Going from one foster family to another, you quickly learn that no one really wants you. Although I was biracial and my skin was incredibly light, I still wasn't white enough. Until I was eighteen, I kept going from one family to another, but I knew they just took me in for the money.

It was always temporary -- never permanent -- especially when those old freaks got drunk enough to want to lay on me. Yeah, I broke a few noses and teeth, and I would do it again if those nasty pigs tried to force themselves on me.

Those fights usually resulted in me being placed somewhere else, only to happen again.

"This negro broke my nose," they would often cry. Well, heck yeah, I did. Try and touch me again, old pig, and your dick would be next. Trust me. Throughout this, I had met only one friend.

She was older than me; her name was Rose. By the time I met her, I was fifteen, and she was seventeen years old. The first time I saw her, I thought I was astonished by her long blond hair and pretty blue eyes, though they always looked sad and angry. She also had a cut on her face, which looked fresh, making me curious to know what must have happened.

"What are you looking at?" She asked when she caught me staring at her.

"Nothing," I blushed. Then asked because I couldn't stop myself. "What happened to your face?" She then scowled, staring down at me.

"None of your business. That's what." Then she got off the couch and went outside on the patio. Later that night, Rose approached me and apologized for reacting earlier, telling me the missus of her previous house struck her when she came forth that her husband tried to force himself on her. That pig.

The one year we lived together was the best year of my life. I felt like I had found someone who understood me, someone I could relate to. Rose was a firecracker; she wasn't scared to say what was on her mind and tell it like it was.

But, as all things went, I knew my newfound happiness wouldn't last. Rose left when her eighteenth birthday hit, promising to not forget me. Though I was sad, I understood that no one wanted to stay in this Nowheretown, Texas. And when she promised to come for me as soon as she was stable, I believed her.

In the two years she left, she wrote me twice to wish me a happy eighteenth birthday and tell me not to worry because she was alright. The second time was a year after she wrote to let me know she had moved to New York City.

As soon as I was eighteen, I transferred to a group home where I stayed for two years and, much like the other years of my life, the home brought nothing but loneliness and depression. I had a wake-up call in those two years -- an epiphany if you'd like.