This is not exactly how I imagined I would spend my 18th birthday. But then again what kid would expect to be running from her abusive parents?
I have been waiting for my 18th birthday since I was ten years old: the first time I was ever hit. That was the day that I was forced to grow up, and I haven't looked back since.
But all of that is behind me now. I'm headed to Lovettsville, Virginia where my Aunt Joyce lives with her happy, perfect family. I think a part of her always felt guilty for not doing more to help me, meaning she was more than happy to offer me a place to stay for a while. She works as a professor at the college I will hopefully be attending (I have to get in first). But first I had to finish out my senior year. I can worry about all of that later, for now I'm just happy to be surrounded by a happy family. Those words are like a foreign language to me.
As the bus pulls up to the bench I've been resting on, I grab my two bags: one full of clothes and the other full of my cheap, off-brand hygiene products. It reeks of the city (trash, weed, and the other exciting things you can find, or smell, in DC). I rest my head on the window sill, thinking about all of the possibilities this new life could bring me. Somewhere I'll feel safe? Comfortable? Loved? I don't know if that's too much to ask for, but frankly it's all I've ever wanted. Forget that cliché "orphan" story though, I'm not a charity case. At least I pretend I'm not...
"Excuse me but I think this is your stop?"
"I must have drifted off I'm sorry.." I mumble sleepily as I turn to see whose voice woke me. A guy around my age towers over me. His eyes are hazel? No green. Hmm definitely hazel. It's hard to tell in this crappy bus lighting. His dark brown hair swoops over the sides of his face gently. That's when I realized I had been staring for too long. "Um thank you for waking me up," I say shyly. I can feel my cheeks flush red as he hands me my two bags and makes his way off the bus. I collect myself and take a deep breath. Let's get this over with.
I trudge down the stairs of the bus and look around for any familiar faces. That's when I meet eyes with a woman. Her ash brown hair and deep hazel eyes could only mean one thing: she was most definitely a Fuller woman. A man stands beside her with his hand around her waist, smiling brightly. I walk over slowly and introduce myself. "I'm Mai Fuller, your niece."
And that is the start of my pathetic life story.