People? Who were these people? I didn’t know; were they enemies or friends? Friend-emies? I didn’t know, how could I know? What was I thinking, wondering if I would survive this? Is every being like this? Every human being?! No, they couldn’t all be like she was, or he was! They just couldn’t be! But if not everyone is like them, then who is to be trusted?...
I was born October 14th, 1996 in Phoenix Arizona. I was born like any other child: crying, naked, and a chubby baby belly. I was born healthy (or so they say) my mothers rotted roots were smiling from one dimple to the next. My father? No one knows where he was. My step-grandmother was standing by my side, holding my little hand. My grandfather, from what I remember being told, had tears in his eyes and actually cracked a smile.
I wasn’t in my mothers arms long, she looked at my changing hazel eyes and smiled back, passed on without a second thought. I stopped crying when I wasn’t in my mothers arms, I was passed to my step grandmother. In her arms I said “Mamma.” Bobby Joe, my biological mother-looked at Cathy who was holding me and gave a sly smile. She was heartbroken and ready to burst into tears.
My grandfather, Daniel, smiles with no teeth in his mouth. It was a strange place that I was in, and until I reached an older age, I wouldn’t have understood.
The night was chilled that October night when I was born, my mother kissed me goodbye and did not give me a second look or thought. Toby, my biological father-was nowhere in site. Even to this day I wondered what became of him, from mistress to mistress, birth to child, and everything inbetween.
I was just born, taking my first breathes and opening my eyes for the first time to the fascinating sounds and sights of the human world. But I was cursed, cursed by my mother. A sort of “spell” took over my body, and until the day that I grow up, I would never comprehend.
We arrived home only a few days later, not long in the hospital. My new mother, Mary Catherine (however she prefered Cathy and who legally at the time was my Step Grandmother), held me in her arms when I cried. I was not but a newborn still, and yet I was filled with seizures and nightmares. My body was drug induced, and pain infiltrated my small (but still alive) cadaver every night. My skin though? My skin was red and I was so skinny. I appeared to mimic a small black African child laying in Ghana or Cairo. My skin was but white with a red “measel” appearance. My body continued to shake and “throb” at night in my cradle, drug influenced and withdrawals.
As I deemed older, Gussy (my daschund) would lay in my cradle under my slobber filled blankets or under my bed snarling at any and all who dared to come by. Much blood was shed on the Mahogany. His teeth bared blood often; when I screeched through the night from either a seizure or withdrawal [attack] he would whimper by my side and cuddle to my face. His warm (but short) hair would brustle along my baby soft skin and my red rashes. I would blame it on Bobby Joe, for everything. Although this is consensual but yet irrelevant to that day and age, as I began to age my opinions formed into fantasies...