I've lived here for too long...

I’ve lived in this town for some time, but still the lack of connection or empathy I feel for these people is a stone wall that cannot be broken. They are they, and I am myself. Something about Ridgemount, the way the people all hide behind a smile, a mask of their inner dread and sadistic thoughts that puts a tingle under my skin. A lifeless child stares out the window of a bus crowded with noisy children, finicky and screaming as if distress were an enjoyment to them. As if torturing others were a rhythm they all wished to play too.1

I’ve lived here for too long.2

My father they say, an angry and frightening man, was never married to my mom. He got her drunk and had his way with her, I was the result. My mother, Lilith, a weak woman beautiful and fragile, now commonly prostitutes herself just to provide a living for herself and her children; me and my two younger siblings. One boy and one girl; we all have different fathers.3

I stand out from the crowd despite my attempts to hide in it; I dislike the idea of standing out against the wall of faces. Why is mine different, how can people stare at me, and know me, even though we have never spoken. People hate me, before words are ever exchanged. It is although a label splotched on with the word ‘outcast’ lays pasted across my forehead. 4

The demonic center of my being is a twitching beast, fighting its way out, how I long to be the end of these people. I stand outside my broken home; my mother claims it as her business center, the bedroom at least. I don’t mind, it gives me another reason to stay out of the damned place.5

I hide from my reflection; I don’t want to see the ugly duckling in its darkened glow. I don’t want to believe that the label I so deny and try to escape from is merely the image I portray. I know my clothes are dirty, and I’m sure my face is ugly too. And staring at the beast only brings back the dreadful memories of years passed, of mother’s boyfriends, and the pain they caused me.6

To society I am a whore of poverty. Maybe to some, my looks are on the edge of pleasing, but I cannot see it that way. The way the men abused me, but I cannot fear them, or it will hurt more. I remind myself, to not look in the mirror and my feelings are safe. Safe as in; I will not cry and I will not reach the end and die. Society already views only my poverty and insanity, why not add runaway to the list?7

But then I remember my sister, only 8 and already the future most children her age imagine (even those most basic jobs) are out of her reach. And my brother, 3 years old soon, he won’t live much longer; he is sick with an illness given to him by our own mother. Sadly I have more siblings, some dead, some runaway, and a few in the orphanage. The only one I remember the face of, my older sister.8

She killed herself.9

I still remember the image, my crying and telling her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. A noose hung in an untidy manner to a high branch, her standing on a log, and jumping. I watched as she died, and no one came to help her, who knows what put her to do that. But the pain in her eyes was more haunting than a sky stricken with lightening. The terrifying sight brought me to my knees; I haven’t cried since, but the pain is still there, but I’m growing numb.