A life worth living

My life before I ran away looked perfect, a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, a decorated officer as a dad and a stay at home mother. But if you looked closer you could see the imperfections. You would see that the beer in our fridge would only last for a couple of days. You would see my mother, always trying to keep my dad happy. And you would see the burns on my skin, where the cigarettes had left there mark. But you would have to look hard, to see these imperfections. They weren’t on the surface, they where kept hidden like a deep dark secret.

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2. Introducing me

Hello, I am going to tell you a story about me, and my life. Before we are done, you will have learned more about me than you want to. More than I attended you to. And more than I will ever learn about myself.  My name is Leila Ann Smith, even though I’m the only one who knows it. Sad right? I am the only one who knows my name. I am sixteen years old and homeless. I ran away from home when I was twelve. Right now every shrink or psychiatrist, would ask my “why?” or “how do you feel about that?”   Well I’m just going to tell you, so you wont bother me about again.

 

My life before I ran away looked perfect, a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, a decorated officer as a dad and a stay at home mother. But if you looked closer you could see the imperfections. You would see that the beer in our fridge would only last for a couple of days. You would see my mother, always trying to keep my dad happy. And you would see the burns on my skin, where the cigarettes had left there mark. But you would have to look hard, to see these imperfections. They weren’t on the surface, they where kept hidden like a deep dark secret.

 

The worst part wasn’t the physical hurt, it wasn’t the feeling of being used as an ashtray or a punching bag. It wasn’t even my dad I hated the most, it was my mother. If my dad got mad and put out a cigarette on me, my mother would ignore it. She did the exact same thing every time I got hurt. She would lay out a fresh pair of clothes on my bed, next to a first aid kit and on my nightstand there would be a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. Milk and cookies? That was how she dealt with it. And that hurt more than everything, more than being beat up or burned. That your own mother wouldn’t protect and care for you, that hurt more then any physical damaged ever would.  

 

 

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