THIS THREAD MAY CONTAIN IDEAS INAPPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN UNDER THE AGES OF 13.
So. I'm writing a book called {un-named}. It's about a girl who lives with a father that hits her and a mother that murders for money. Please do not read if you get scared easily, have nightmares about what you read, are against books referring to...stuff, or have not learned about D.A.R.E. or similar programs. Thank you.
Note: Ander :P
I have always been that girl.
The girl who walks down the hallway when she needs to be in class, the girl who is in the classroom when she needs to be in the hallway. The girl who pretends to not notice that people are laughing at her. The girl who never has felt the warmth of love.
Because I never intended to.
My parents had me by accident. That accident had happened to a late night in April, my mother's birthday. She was turning sixteen. For the first time, her mother and father let her have beer- free, unlimited beer- at her party.
The party was a costume party. My mother and father were boyfriend and girlfriend by now, but they had been together for only a month. They dressed up as the devil and the devil's maiden. She had commanded everyone else to dress as saints, angels, etc. onsidering that all her friends were devil-worshippers, no one liked the prospect of dressing as saints. But it was her sweet sixteen, so what could they say?
“Ihh,” she slurred, “have an... announcement to say.” She paused, looking meaningfully at her boyfriend. “Ih'm gonna be in the bedroom. Ih'm tired.” She staggered off the table she had stood on and into the adjoining room. She flopped onto the bed, and was out like a light in three seconds flat.
My father was still sober at that point, but was lured to the keg. He was drunk within minutes, gulping down five shot-glasses a minute. He wandered his way into the bedroom. And there she was, lying peacefully on her back. He climbed into the bed...
I snapped from my thoughts as the belt hit the small of my back, my father's favorite place to hit. I cried out involuntarily, and he smiled. “Don't touch my wallet again, Lusala!” I cringed when he said my name. Why did they have to give me a boy's name?
Oh yeah. My mother had taken a hobo's word that he was actually a doctor in disguise (something only my mother would believe). He told them it was a boy. They searched books and found the name Louis, a name they liked. When my mother had gone into labor- and had a girl- she shouted, “Louis- ALLAH!” (She's Islamic) The nurse misheard, writing Lusala, which happened to be an African boy's name. Eventually, it faded into being pronounced LOOSE-allah.
“Lusala, Lusa-lusa-lusala!” he screamed at me. My instincts told me to punch him, but I knew better. I just stood there as he mocked me. Mother would have done the same, but luckily she was at "work". AKA prison. There were two sides to that- the fact I was getting relief from my mother, but then also I was being “cared for” by my dad. Whatever had happened to Social Security checks?!
Maybe it was just for those kids who were home-schooled. I went to a public school, and it was bad enough there as it was here at home. Everyone always giggled like I wasn't there. Maybe I wasn't Maybe I was. Sometimes, real life just got so... so... overrated. Which is where my alternate universe came in.
I liked to call it nothing more than “My Alternate Universe”. The universe in which people didn't hate on me for no apparent reason. In which Mother and Father were actually kind. In which, well, really everything was different. Nothing in this world was desirable for me. Anymore.
Maybe life would be more desirable, more fun if I wasn't such an outcast. I've learned to hate that word. Outcast. Exile. All synonymous with me.
Usually at school, I was just ignored. Through kindergarten to my freshman year, everything was okay- well, not as bad as now. But now that I'd started my sophomore year, things had changed dramatically. My mother had gotten a “job”- the job where the objective is to bring back the body at two A.M. My father had gotten a job making belts- convenient, right? My parents wanted me out of the house when I was sixteen. Before I was even out of high school. Hmm, I wondered who wasn't attending my graduation ceremony?
I ran up to my room, tripping on a few stairs as I rushed away. When you've lived like this for as long as I have, there becomes a schedule of lock and load. But it was more like load and lock. When my father would load, he'd load his anger. I'd lock by just not thinking, not moving, doing nothing. Act frozen. Dead.