As much as I hated school, I hated going home even more. School was my escape from the horrors that waited for me at my house. I could deal with the stares and snickering behind my back at school, I could even restrain the urge to strangle every teacher around me. But at home, there’s nothing for me there except sorrow, hate, and confusion.
From the moment I walked into my house, I wanted to turn around and run away. My mother was in the kitchen as always. She was smoking a cigarette and flipping threw a magazine. She only glanced up at me as I walked to the fridge.
I sighed at what I saw.
On the disgusting white shelves, there was a half-empty carton of milk, a bottle of salad dressing, a bruised apple, and one can of Coke. I grabbed the Coke and pivoted on my foot. My mother continued to slap the thin pages of her magazine down on the table as I walked away.
My mother’s hair was tied up with a purple scrunchie. She had dyed her hair so many times, I don’t even think she remembers her natural color. Her teeth were crooked and yellow from all the years of smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. She wore shorts and a loose tank top that had been washed about twice in its three years of circulation through her wardrobe. She had on flip-flops that had been mine. I stole them from a department store last summer. She took them from my closet and refuses to give them back.
Our kitchen lacked a dishwasher, so there were week-old cups, plates, and other science experiments stacked in the sink and overflowing onto the counter. I would have to wash them soon because both my mother and I knew that she wouldn’t.
I grabbed my backpack that I had left by the door and went into my closet-sized room. I had the same twin-sized bed that I’d had since before my father left, which was when I was two and a half. I had a small desk in the corner of my room that had stacks of books on and around it. My kleptomaniac life had provided me with several band posters of some of my favorites. There was a poster of Amy Lee and Marilyn Manson, and for some reason I grabbed a poster of Orlando Bloom instead of The Used. I put it on my wall anyway.
I pushed my way through the few stacks of black clothing—also from my klepto life—and threw myself on my bed. I sighed and threw my arm over my eyes. Life couldn’t be this hard for every other teenager. It just isn't possible that every teenager has to go through the same troubles I had to go through. It didn’t seem fair that if I had to go through hell, no one else had to.
I rolled off my bed and fumbled for my backpack. I tore the zipper open and ripped through the tattered bag. When I found what I was searching for, I pushed all of my books that were on my desk to the floor and slapped the stupid pink journal on it. I scrambled through the mess that had been pushed towards the wall for a pen or pencil. I found an earring gauge that I had been looking for. I tossed it over my shoulder and continued to search for something to write with.
Finally finding a half-bitten-to-death pencil, I opened the cover to the first journal entry. I reread what I had written earlier that day. I smiled to myself at how funny some of my comments to him were. Mr. Teacher couldn’t be taken seriously; it was too much effort to even try to do as much.
I grabbed a knife from the faded blue backpack and started carving a point on the pencil as I thought of other things to write in the journal. I couldn’t continue to bash Mr. Teacher’s teaching methods. That would be rude.
I wouldn’t want to be rude.
I bit at the two lip piercings at the right of my mouth. They were called snakebites. They were all the rage the week before I bought them. After I took the two neon green hoops and stabbed my own skin with them, they were considered ‘so last season.’ I didn’t care though; they looked awesome and somehow didn’t get infected.
When I was satisfied with the point of my pencil I drew a small heart in the left corner of the page. I colored it in as black as it would go. Then I continued the entry.
This is my P.S. to you, Mr. Teacher. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.
When I got home today, my mother still didn’t go food shopping. She didn’t clean the house. She didn’t even take a shower. She is a pathetic excuse for a living creature. I honestly don’t blame my father for leaving her. I would too if I had a place to go.
My father left when I was two. I don’t remember it. However, my mom has told me the story as a beddy-time story every night until I was seven.
It was bad between my parents. They always fought. They never fought about me though, always about themselves. They would fight about bills, their relationship, my aunts and uncles. Everything but me.
Do you want to psycho-analyze this for me?
Much appreciated.
Is this what you wanted me to write about in my entry? I’ll remember that for next time.
I love contradicting myself, it makes life interesting.
Well, Mr. Teacher, I really must be off now. I have much homework to do. Not that it matters to the teachers if I do it or not. I have observed that they don’t even notice me in their classroom. I sit in the back corner. Do they even know my name?
Probably not. Why should they?
Until tomorrow—for real this time.
