The True Story Of How I Met Your Daddy

My hand shakes as I write this, but I have to get it down. It's the last thing I'll be doing in this life. I want you to know who your real parents are, and the real story behind them. I love you, my baby boy.


9. Depressed


My life isn't worth living any more.

I was arrested again for breaking and entering, and assault. I got let out a fortnight ago, then evicted for not paying rent. At the moment, I'm living in a motel room just outside of Los Angeles. I've had to sell a lot of things to get here, and I barely have enough money to live on. I work as a cleaner at the motel, but I end up with barely enough. So I have to find another "job" to make ends meet.

I stand in the bathroom, pulling my skirt up past my hips. It's long enough, that I could wear it as a very short dress. I fix it into place, and tie a wide belt around the middle, so my waist looks thinner. That's what the punters want though. Long legs, thin waist, wide hips and a large chest. So I have to try and look like an hourglass on stilts. It's not exactly easy to achieve, but I have to get as close as possible. I brush out my hair,and let it hang loose over my back, like a black curtain. It's grown a lot longer now, and I could wear it as a dress. The two little bits at the side frame my face, which I have to change. I close my eye, and sweep a fine layer of peacock blue eyeshadow over my lids. Next, I draw on dark eyeliner under my eyes, and the thickest pair of false eyelashes I own, are fixed on. I hate looking like such a...such a tart. But you don't go out looking like how you want to look; you go out how others want to you look. I open my eye again, and brush on a dusting of berry-red blusher, in a single line going along my cheekbones to my hairline. I hate it, but like I said, it's not my choice. The final touch, a single stripe of firey orange lipstick right down the centre of my lips, before I leave the bathroom and into my bedroom/living room/kitchen.

If tonight's going to be anything like last week, then I might as well clean up a bit. I pick up the pieces of clothing scattered across the floor and draped on the back of my sofa, and stash them in my suitcase. I've no intention of moving out, but this place doesn't have a closet, so it'll have to do. I hide the suitcase under the bed, and straighten out the fire-engine red and black silk sheets. It has to be a hint as to what my extra "job" is.

I finish tidying up, and slip on my heels. They're the same six-inch high neon pink ones that I wore when I confron-

"Don't think about that. He's worth nothing to you, and you're glad the test said he's not the father of your son." I hissed halfway through my thought, forcing me to believe it. I don't really believe it at all, but I have to forget as much as possible. I'm only allowing myself to remember 3 details of the last 5 years. That fateful night in 1980, my son, and who I thought was the father. Otherwise it hurts so badly. I take my denim jacket, slip it on (making sure that the marks on my wrist are covered) and head out to "work" for the night.


The threadbare curtains do nothing to block out the sunrise, and I get the full force of The California Morning in my face. It really sucks, especially after a full "shift". I crawl out from under the covers, staggering to the tiny bathroom. Exactly like on the morning afte-

"Don't you dare!" I hissed, digging my long fake fingernails into my wrist, so the pain would distract me from that rogue thought.

"What did you say?" Comes a voice from my bed. My last client of the night, whom I need to ask for my pay from the night. Especially as I need to pay the gas bill this week, or it'll get cut off.

"Oh, nothing. I just caught myself on something. Don't worry about it!" I replied, going into my bathroom. That was too close for comfort. Everyone in the past who found out who I really was, refused to pay me, then demanded I take the pill. Just in case I have another kid and say it's theirs, which I wouldn't do anyway. Nobody wants to know me anymore except for if they want some action.

I brush my hair out in the mirror, working out how much he owes me. Normally it would be around $175, but as he was quite attractive, and doesn't know my real name, I'll knock it back to $160. That'll get the bill paid, with a bit extra on the side. I pull on my ancient silk bathrobe, and go out to get my pay.

"How much is it?" He asked, sitting on the bed.

"$160. I even took it down a bit." I replied. Most of the clients like it when I say I've taken it down."

"Here you go, and goodbye." He stood up, handed me the money, then left for his room next door. I counted out the bills, and stowed them away. That makes $375 in total from the night's "work", and enough to pay the gas bill.

I take out a clean skirt and top, and take them to the bathroom. I change into them, and notice the tiny, blinking, red eyes of the clock on the wall. 6:50am, it says, as I button up the front.

"Nearly time for school." I whisper, before killing the thought. I don't have a son any more, so I can't take him to school anyway. Must be mothers intuition kicking in again; telling me to look after the child I'm not allowed to see, or know where he is.

Hot, salty tears spring up at the thought of my son. He could be anywhere in the state of California, and I can't know where. I might even have seen him, and not realised it. He'd be about 4 and a half now, so I might not recognise him.

"Don't be so thick. You'd instantly know. Now man-up and get on with your new life." I hissed. I can't afford sentimentalities anymore, as they make you so depressed that you want to cut out all the bad bits of you. Trust me, I've been there before. The thick scars stand out on my wrists and forearms, proving my knowledge. They're startlingly white and shiny, against my tanned, matte skin. They're oddly comforting though, despite the ugliness, like little notes that say "Things are better than they have been" or something like that.

The long silver hairdressing scissors, glint invitingly on the small shelf. I shouldn't do it, but it does help a lot. I knock it off the shelf and it lands in the sink. I pick them up, open the blades, and drag the blade across my forearm. The blade stings, and drops of bright scarlet blood spring up. The drops flow out, until the sink has a red streak slowly flowing down the white porcelain. It hurts so badly, but it's strangely satisfying. I rinse off the blade, then the thick blood off my arm. It's disgusting, but so distracting. At least I won't be thinking about my son for a long time now.

I come out of the bathroom, with a fresh, bleeding gash on my forearm. I don't care if people think of me as the "Crazy Obsessed Self-Cutting Freak" anymore, as I bet they don't know the real story.

"You're depressed, mental girl. The slashes are you trying to call for help, and streetwalking every night? Well, you're trying to get love the only way you think you can. You need help." I told myself.

"Shut UP!" I ran back into the bathroom and slashed my other forearm, so my rational (and right) thoughts would disappear. I can't call for help, as it'll just be like the last time. (Well what's your name? Whilhemina-Jean. As in, the one from the song? Yes. Suffer, goldigger bitch.) That was a total fail.

Like me.

I'm a total fail.

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