I'm Not Wanted

 *The following is based on true events to the best of my capability. Trigger warnings: alcoholism, childhood trauma, emotional abuse

My alarm goes off, it’s time to get ready for another day at Blackhawk School (whose mascot at the time was a young 'Native American child' with a Warrior's headdress). I had already been going there since we lived with David. We now live with another white, racist man named Joey. He is part Italian. Joey’s apartment is a large lavender Victorian two-story home converted into two apartments. We live on the bottom. The only times the front doors open are when I’m journaling underneath the shade of the decorative overhang listening to both my stereo and the busy street. Our place sits on Highway 26. Joey’s daughter is occupying the second bedroom until she moves to college in a month or so. I envy her massive water bed. My mattress sits on the floor facing away from the bedrooms and towards the front doors. My right wall consists of Mom’s and my wooden horizontal dresser along with an old sheet she 'got' from work. My bedroom doesn’t have much privacy, only rounded doorways. Between their bedrooms and mine is an empty space I often mimic our cat in. (The same cat Joey later shoots because it gets 'trapped' in a sewer.) I go to gently wake Mom up so that she can help me get ready for school; she mentioned the night before that she wanted me to take a bath. “What time is it?” I answer her. “Wake me up in fifteen.” The problem is I struggle with reading clocks. I don’t understand how the numbers printed turn into increments of five; I see no fifteen. I take a guess at what time she meant and wake her up accordingly. She explodes with anger because not only is it passed the time she originally thought but school has started (or is close to starting). I usually don’t hear this much anger unless she’s intoxicated, so I presume she’s hungover. Her words hack me apart: “WHAT DON’T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?! HOW THE HELL DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO TELL TIME?! YOU'RE TOO OLD FOR THIS, SAMANTHA! DIDN'T THEY TEACH YOU THIS IN SCHOOL?!” Stomping to the kitchen where our clock hangs, she frustratingly explains how seconds work. “GOD DAMMIT, SAMANTHA! I TOLD YOU I WANTED YOU TO TAKE A BATH! FUCK!... GOD DAMIT! UGH, I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL YOU'RE EIGHTEEN AND MOVE OUT!” She rushes to get ready. She has torn me from head to toe; a wound she'll never be able to heal. I’m frozen once again, trying to hold in the tears because if she sees (or perhaps she did see) she’ll yell, “STOP CRYING!” We finally arrive at school and I’m escorted to class. It’s here I know I’m able to let go. It's here I know I'm heard, I'm safe. At some point, I’m taken into the hallway and my first-grade, pregnant teacher, Mrs. DeWall, asks what’s wrong. I repeat my Mother’s words with heartache, “...I can’t wait until you're eighteen and move out…” My teacher gives a sympathetic look, trying to comfort me she says, “Oh…I’m sure she didn’t mean it…”