Amelia: Chapter 1 — My Name is Amelia
My name is Amelia Reinhart.
Or... it's just "Amelia," really.
I don't actually know my real surname but "Reinhart" sounds cool, doesn't it? While reading some books from our home's study, I learned about a woman named Amelia Earhart.
Apparently, she was the first ever female aviator who flew solo across the Atlantic Ocean. It's what she was known best for. I don't know what drew me towards her— maybe it was the fact that we shared the same given name— but all I knew is that I admired her.
I admired her way more than the man raising me.
It may sound cold, but that man doesn't deserve the title of "father." He's a decrepit old man who only took care of me for his own benefit... But really, I could never say that straight to his face because he was the one who brought me in.
I never knew my real parents. My earliest memories only consist of me living down in the rainy streets, desperately trying to survive. The only reason I even knew I had parents was because of this old, run-down locket I'm wearing around my neck.
Who knows where I got it from? For as long as I remembered, this locket's been with me. Inside is a small photo of a man who looks like he's in the military, and another of a beautiful woman with long, flowing black hair.
The photo is big enough for me to make out their faces. It might be some childlike instinct drawing me towards the two of them, but, in a way, I feel like I owe these two my life somehow. That, or I'm just carrying a photo of two complete strangers around my neck.
Above the photo are two names— well, I say two, but one of them is burned out for some reason.
The first name is clear: Amy
I can infer that the name "Amy" belongs to the woman whom I think is my biological mother.
The second one is completely charred. The only remnant visible are a couple hard-to-make-out lines that try to form a letter. From what I can see, it looks like either the letters A, E, F, K or R.
In honor of these two strangers going with me everywhere I go— despite not even having the slightest clue of who these people are— I named myself Amelia from the name Amy.
Isn't that sad? No one was ever around to give me a name, so I brought it upon myself to give myself a title.
As for my surname, however, I didn't know where to start. I've lived a lot of my life only having a first name. It was only after that man took me in that I had a clear vision of who I wanted to be. I've spent most of my time inside of his study. It's chock-full of interesting novels.
Since the day four years ago that he took me in, I've always taken an interest in his books. He always told me not to touch them, but I always would. Without fail, he'd yell at me for minding my own business. Stupid, annoying, old man...
I've never been an outside-person. Hell, the only experience I've ever had with strangers is when they'd berate me for loitering, or catch me stealing food. I used to think it was unfair for me since I didn't have a roof over my head while they did, but I began thinking about it from their perspective:
Some nuisance always causing trouble would definitely annoy the shit out of me, too. Well, at least that's what I would think if I were in their shoes. Definitely won't stop me from still thinking that they're the scum of the earth.
I hate people. I really do. Everybody treats me like a pest, and the same goes for my father. This caused me to spend most of my time at the public library. There's a nice old lady in there whom at the very least doesn't make me out to be worthless.
Most of my time is usually spent there. In fact, the old man usually doesn't give two shits whether I stay there the night. That is until he snaps out of his drunken stupor, finally decides to act like a father and goes after me.
Actually, scratch that; he doesn't act fatherly at all. One time, he caught me fast asleep at the library desk near closing time. I was scared for my life. He dragged me home, and there, he just started... ugh, never mind...
At that point, though, I grew out of it. I would always used to cry whenever he would hurt me, but eventually I just grew numb towards it. I'm not trying to act tough, nor do I think that I'm an adult yet. I just really don't care until he starts crying himself and starts profusely apologizing like he didn't just beat the fuck out of me a couple seconds ago.
Worthless, old pile of garbage, that's what he is. I don't recall once an event where he tried to act like a father towards me. He's never taught me anything; all my knowledge is from living out in the streets for over half my life, and from all of the books I've read from cover to cover.
What the hell is even the point? If I confront him about his behavior, he'll just start all over again. If I try to avoid him— even if it'll work for a day or two— he'll just find me eventually, and... you know what comes next.
Ahaha... I've always thought of running away, but where would I even go? Back on the streets and go back to the hellish life I lived? I have absolutely nowhere to go, no family to come home to, no possessions to bring...
Honestly, things don't get any worse. I'd much rather stay here than to go back to the ruthless streets. Again, I'm not a people person. I like my secluded, quiet life I live with my not-so-quiet father.
Don't worry. I'm not sad or anything.
It's just what was destined for me.