What Am I? A Son

I can claim many adjectives to describe myself, but there aren't very many nouns that can be put to this effect:

First, I am a son:

My parents, Charles, called Richie by his friends, and Melissa, were roommates when they first met. I've never asked them too much about their lives before me, so I can't describe that, but they were roommates. My mom was in beauty school, studying to be a hair stylist, and my dad was in the Navy as an engineer for the engine of a ship. I have no clue how they met, I just know that they did. Soon, they started dating, and, in 1997, they got married. I was a spoiled brat as a young kid. It was always about what I wanted: the only thing I would eat was Macaroni and Cheese, I got everything I wanted without any work, and we went on a family cruise every year. They spoiled me- until the Spring of 2011: I was only eleven years old. That's when my parents separated. My mom went to live with my grandmother in Norfolk, and I lived with my dad at the house that I grew up in in Virginia Beach. I soon discovered, thanks to my dad's warnings, why they split up. "Don't hang out with Phil anymore," my dad said one night. Phil was my boxing instructor and I really liked him until then, he was really cool and funny. I made the connection very quickly that my mother and Phil had been having an affair.

School was still in session and I had to cope with this traumatic life-changing event along with the constant bullying from my peers for being smart, socially awkward, and not particularly athletic, popular, or attractive. One day, I was pulled from PE by the guidance counselor, a woman whose name I cannot remember, yet I still despise to this day. She was actually very nice to me and courteous and tried to help me through my harrowing experience of elementary school. She brought me to her office where I found my mother, sitting there, her hair tied into that disgusting bun she always did with a scrunchie and her make-up  running down her face: I could see the saltiness on her face and it made me mad. It didn't make me mad that she was crying, thinking that someone had upset her, it made me mad that she was here, at school! How dare she!(I still felt like I should have been a privileged brat)! I shouted at the guidance counselor for allowing her in here, but she just got even more angry and she let my mother take me "home," to my grandmother's house. Once there, I found my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table, with a closed manila envelope sitting on the table in front of her. My mother sat down and gestured for me to do so as well. I was nervous, I was scared, I was trembling, and my mother slid the envelope to me, "Open it." I did, finding several legal documents in legal-jargon that I didn't understand, "Your father," she began her sobbing again. "Your father, Brandon," my grandmother continued for her daughter, "kidnapped you in a drunken rage when you were a baby."

I threw the envelope to the floor, stomping it with my foot, yelling and cursing at the two "Lies! Lies!" I yelled, I couldn't believe it, my dad, the man who had stepped up to take care of me the past 3 months in my mother's absence, had kidnapped me? No, I wouldn't believe it. I didn't care. They were wrong, they must've been. I didn't care if they were wrong or not, I shouted curses at them and ran. Instead of for the front door(it was actually the back door, sort of, but I don't feel like describing the architecture of my grandmother's tiny house), I ran for the back door. There were two couches between me and there, so I ran like hell. My mom was faster though, she blocked the door with her body, so I lunged into the small office. I stood back up quickly to shut the door, but my grandmother had shoved her arm through already and I was too sympathetic for her, instead of holding the door tight to her arm, I tried to push it through, which inevitably failed. They dragged me outside to one of the chairs on the patio, where I sobbed for nearly an hour before any words were spoken. I looked only at the street while my mother tried to console me, trying to justify her affair, saying that Phil could take care of her and I, but I detested the man by now, and I shunned her. I hatched a plan, though. Excusing myself to the bathroom, I still had my phone tucked in my pocket from school. While in the bathroom, I phoned my dad for help, "I'm coming to get you Brandon, everything is going to be alright." he said. Having apparently come back inside and overheard the conversation, my mom burst into the bathroom and dragged me out, as I hadn't  actually removed my pants in the slightest, grabbing my phone from me. She plopped me in the office and left me there, "This is where you'll  be sleeping tonight." she said, tossing me the saddest excuse of a blanket and pillow I'd ever seen. I laid there crying for a few more hours until I realized the door hadn't been locked, so I crept out. Instead of going for the back door, which was right next to me, I wanted to retrieve my school bag and cell-phone, as it was night and I wanted to make sure my dad was still outside, if he ever even got there. I went to the kitchen to look out the window to see my mother, grandmother, and Phil in the lawn-chairs on the patio. I spotted my phone, next to my mother on the table my grandfather used to smoke at. I grabbed my school bag next to the door, and quickly swung it open, running to grab the phone. Surveying the situation even more, Phil was between me and the gate to exit the back yard, and my grandmother, who was considerably slower, was a few feet away from being between me and the door I'd just burst from, so I went back through there,  running back through the kitchen to the living room, but before I could "Dukes of Hazzard"(as I've come to call the Dukes of Hazzard's  signature hood slide) over the couch, my mother grabbed me by the waist, with an inhuman snarl crawling across her lips. I fell to the floor, my mom snatching the phone from my hand and pitching it at the wall. From what I could see, the phone had smashed into a million pieces, cutting me off from the outside world.

A knock on the office's door awoke me from my contemplation and depression. I opened the door to see a police officer there, looking at me with utter neutrality and indifference. He brought me outside and asked me a few questions, still totally indifferent, then left, saying that I should be nicer to my mother. I went back inside, picking up the pieces of my broken phone only to discover that the only thing that had come apart was the removable, back casing, holding the battery inside. I repaired the phone, went back into the office, and closed the door. I called my dad, who had been waiting at the end of the street in his truck, unable to pass due to the police stopping him because Phil had a restraining order from himself and my father. My father told me to remain calm and just let my mother win, she would drop me off at the house tomorrow morning.

Several months later, my mother conned my father into getting back together, which I later found out was just so she could have the house. They soon broke up again, my father moving into the guest room and soon, into an apartment of his own before my sixth grade year began. I was spending half the time with my father and half with my mother by the time she moved into her own apartment as well. And that's how it still is now as I write this.