Humanity

The Story of A Broken Child

My parents never abused me, but don’t think for a second that they ever showed me any love. My Father would often look at me and say “If that condom hadn’t busted then we’d be better off.” That and similar phrases commonly sprang from him. He’d always mention how much extra I burdened them. Whenever we ate he said “Me and your mother could eat more if you weren’t here.” When he watched television, “I could’ve seen that touchdown on an HD TV if we never had kids.” And whenever he smoked crystal he would often mention how much more he could get his hands on if I wasn’t draining his wallet. But that was only my father, it was my Mother who truly made me feel unloved. Not hated, just unloved. I think she spoke to me a total of 14 times in the years I spent with her. She didn’t proclaim her dissatisfaction with me as a burden, she just kept it inside. I eventually tolerated Dad’s outbursts, but sheer silence shakes you forever.

                Besides having no education, other than those math shows on the local news channel, and no supporting love, my childhood wasn’t bad at all for a “crack baby.” It was adolescence that sucked. When I was about 14, the police caught my father selling meth and arrested him. Which led to them searching our house and arresting my drugged up mother as well. The state then saw it fit to throw me into a foster family and get me into school. But I wasn’t relieved by this. The idea of a pair of parents that actually cared for me and would smile when I came in the door wasn’t my idea of a better life. The only life I’d known was a verbally abusive father and a cold hearted, silent mother. But, a little 14 year old had no say, especially when I was too timid to speak my mind.

                Anyway, I’m taken with my little backpack of belongings to my first pair of foster parents. Mrs. Miles greets me with a hug and a pinch on the cheek. She smells like she’s been cooking all day.

                “Hi” I say, trying to hide my speech impediment, but by the look on Mr. Miles face, I could tell he heard it.

                “Well how do you Mrs. Miles, I have all this lovely fabric and I’m great at sewing. Have you watched real house wives?” He said, mocking my voice. “You’ve got a f****t voice son! Well shucks, I’m sorry, but it’s funny!” His deep voice hit me, I tried to focus on the fact that he was joking. I was surprised yes, and maybe even startled, but I let it go. Mr. Miles kept staring at me, probably waiting for me to laugh or cry, but I just shrugged and went up to the room they had prepared for me.

                “D****t John, he hates us already!” I heard Mrs. Miles say as I walked up stairs.

                “It was a joke and it’s his fault for talking like a f*g!”

                “You hurt his feelings!”

                “He’ll get over it, it was a joke!”

                “That is beside the point! You made us look bad on our first impression!”

                “Do you think I care? I’m the one putting a roof over his head. He’ll learn to appreciate that!”

                “I want him to love us, everyone else just put up with us, I want him to be different. I want to be a mother! I want to have a little kid look up at me, smile and say ‘I love you mommy.’ That’s all I ever wanted John! And you’ve ruined my attempts every time!”

                “Me? I’ve done nothing but work to support this family! I get up every day, put on a tie, and go to a life-draining office to support you! I sacrificed all my ambitions so we can live in a three hundred thousand dollar house! I gave up my passion so that you could wear those pearls on your neck. You want a child’s love? Well that’s the one thing my empty, strenuous, stressful job can’t make the money to buy for you!” This argument was intriguing me for an unknown reason, these people were my “parents,” and yet they argue over the fact of me loving them. I patiently listened as they went on.

                “John I don’t care what you do! My job has only ever been a foster mother! You don’t think it drains me to have every single of the six kids we’ve had through this house to hate me? They count down the days until they turn eighteen and they can leave this Hell hole of a home!”

                “This home is by no means a Hell hole, these kids come from drug lords, hoarders, and gangsters! This kid can sleep on a real bed for once in his life! He can wake up with food on the f*****g table!”

                “A home isn’t the house, it’s the people in it! The family is the home John. We don’t support the children like a mother and father should!”

                “We don’t? Like I just said their parents were horrible, scum of the earth people! Their parents didn’t want them, but we volunteered to take them! Get over it Mary, if you want him to truly love you, then change!” I heard a loud pop, and assumed that Mrs. Miles slapped Mr. Miles.

                “Being parents is a team effort! He can’t just love one of us!”

                “That boy and every other kid we’ve had through what you call a Hell hole would love you if you actually cared about him! All you want is for him to love you, you never loved any of them; you just wanted to be loved. All you care about is yourself! Maybe they would come and jump in your arms if you cared for them. Loving is a team effort!” I closed the door to block off the rest of the yelling. I’d heard enough. I realized how right Mr. Miles was, even though he showed no compassion, he never expected any back. However, Mrs. Mary Miles wanted all the love in the world, and she couldn't care less about anyone save for herself.

                I examined my room and quickly found random belongings left behind from the kids here before me. The closet contained various clothing items, from petite pink dresses to extra extra extra large heavy metal t-shirts.  I explored and saw the various personalities that slept where I’ll be sleeping. From what I could gather: a cheerleader, one emo, a major computer nerd, some singer of sorts, one intense lacrosse player, and some guy that didn’t fit into a high school stereotype. Looking at all this high school memorabilia reminded me that I would be attending the school here in a few days. A wave of anxiety hit me when I realized it, because I don’t know any other children and I’ve never been to school, plus my whole voice problem. I knew that my new “parents” would be no help and that I would just be thrown to the wolves. I kept worrying about all the possible scenarios, like any rising freshman would, but only a thousand times worse. However, after about half an hour of worrying I gave up on worrying. I calmed down, and I accepted that the future would come, there’s no stopping it, so why worry? I have never been more wrong, but it eased my nerves for the time.

                Those few days flew by and everything I interpreted from the Miles’ argument proved true. Mrs. Miles, or “Mom” as she made me call her, wanted nothing but my undying love, yet she never did anything for me. She never reached out. She would make me kiss her on the cheek and tell her everything about my uneventful day, then she would end up lecturing about some life lesson that typical moms are supposed to give. But she wasn’t giving me these lectures because she cared about me, she was just waiting for my face to light up with affection. She didn’t even come up with her little chats, I saw her looking up Mom Talks or something on her computer. However, I got along with Mr. Miles more or less. He would make fun of me from time to time, but we wanted nothing from each other and that’s exactly what we got. It’s not like we had great father-son like bonding, but we didn’t hate each other and we both understood that we were nothing more than housemates.

Mr. and Mrs. Miles would often argue, so naturally I would listen and learn more about them. I learned that Mr. Miles worked at a prestigious software company, but hated it. His real passion was wood work, he wanted to be a carpenter, but gave it up to provide the lifestyle that his wife wanted as Mrs. Miles was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and was determined to die with more. I don’t know how they fell in love, but they surely have fallen out of it now. My parents could by no means properly raise me, but at least when they looked at each other there was a spark in their eyes before they passed out from whatever they were smoking.

                Several days later, I found myself in the registration line for school. There were other kids there, but I didn’t talk to any of them. I took a test and some lady who reminds me of Ms. Miles asked me some standard questions. But when she asked them her tone of voice was different, it was like almost as if she was talking to me like I’m a toddler. Soon I discovered why. My absence of social skills combined a blatant failure on a placement test meant that I was going to a special education class for kids with learning disabilities.

                I was taken by the hand to my special class room. Kids laughed at me in the halls and insults rolled off their tongues.

                “Make sure your mommy gets you to class!”

                “Don’t forget to give mommy a kiss!”

                “Ha-ha, more retards.” These insults were harsh, but I could only listen. Most of the kids got bored eventually, but two guys followed and continued berating me.

                “Have fun with your puzzles today!” said the taller one with blonde hair.

                “Don’t think too hard or you’ll hurt yourself!” said the other one. I didn’t respond because I knew it would only get worse. The two looked to be about my age and reminded me of the a*****e character on that one TV show. But what shocked me most was that the teacher did nothing. She heard every word, but didn’t make a move to defend me, she just kept walking and ignored the boys.

                I eventually got to class and sat down. I was surrounded by kids with various “challenges.” The teachers rotated every hour or so and there were some student volunteers in from time to time. But my classmates were surprisingly happy. Adrian, a kid with Asperger’s, was the happiest kid in the world and all he was doing was basic math with crayons. Lucy, a girl with autism, couldn’t stop smiling from doing a few simple logic problems. I had enough prior knowledge from television to complete our assignments with ease, but this troubled me. The other kids thought I was a genius and really liked me. However, my teachers said good job and continued to treat me like a toddler. In fact, that’s what they did with all the students. The teacher were never genuinely proud or impressed, they just put up with the kids in order to get a raise or brag about their good deed later. None of them were interested in helping me and my peers or build a relationship to help drive a struggling kid. Because of this I chose to avoid the teachers and talk mainly to my classmates and the volunteers.

                My first day went fairly smooth and I was able to befriend some of my peers and also some “normal” kids. One in particular, Veronica. She was a freshman who was doing volunteer work in here for a community service club. She was very nice and actually seemed to care about me more than any of the teachers. And the more I thought, she was the first person to really show me any compassion.

                The bell rang and I was once again led by hand through the halls. The two guys from earlier somehow found my class at lunch. The insults fired right back up.

                “Need someone to spoon feed you, retard?” said Timothy, the taller, blonde one.

                “Y’all are so gay your mind broke!” said Seth, the shorter, chubbier one. Bryan, a boy with cerebral palsy, resultantly burst into tears, bringing a sick form of joy to Timothy and Seth. They continued until all but me started crying. I just stared at them, wondering about their blind hatred toward us. We had done nothing wrong and I wasn’t even special! I didn’t show it, but my blood was boiling.

                The rest of the day was thankfully uneventful and frankly boring. I talked with Veronica, and she gave me my spirits back.

                When I arrived home, my “Mom” was crying at the table. I asked her “What’s wrong?” But apparently I was out of line.

                “Don’t you take that tone of voice with young man. Today is not the day to test me. My life is over.”

                “I’m sorry.” I said simply and tried to escape to my room. But “Mom” wasn’t done.

                “I know you just got here, but you’re getting the Hell out tonight.” she said.

                “Excuse me?” I replied, confused.

                “Foster parents can’t keep a child if one of them is convicted. John was arrested this morning. That damn fool, he betrayed me, I hope his a*s rots in prison.” she vented.

                “So-uh what happened?”

                “Your father has been embezzling money from his company to support our lifestyle. If only he’d worked like every other American.” Her words struck a nerve with me, she had never worked a day in her life and is now complaining about something wrong her husband did just because he loves her, or at least he used to.

                “You don’t deserve to say that.” I replied quietly, regretting the words as soon as they left my lips, but still not backing down.

                “What the Hell did you just say to me? I am your Mother! Learn your place!” She got up as if to hit me.

                I stepped back and said “You’re not my mom and you have no right to say anything about your husband. He did wrong cause he loved you, and you’re just a self-entitled b***h who hasn’t ever done anything in return for anyone.” My words shocked her, and she had no idea how to respond. I left before she could find some hateful words for me.

 I went up to my room and began packing the few belongings I had. As I packed, I went through the former foster kids’ belongings, and took a sleek, sharp, and black switchblade that must have been the emo’s as a souvenir from this “Hell hole.”

                I was taken to a new foster home about 5 minutes away, which meant I would unfortunately go to the same school. When I arrived, two extremely obese people greeted me, The Dixons. They were both quiet and shy, much like me. We never talked much.

                The next day at school was virtually the same as the first. Virtually absent teachers, a cute “normal” girl that I liked, friends that thought me a genius, and the worst of it, ignorant kids making me feel worthless.

                That’s about how my first year went. I had a small circle of friends, mostly special. The only “normal” kids I talked to were Blake, an awkward soccer player; James, a  very shy nerd; Terry, the quietest cheerleader; and Veronica, the sweetest volunteer ever. I guess you could say I had a crush on Veronica, she was only the person that cared about me and that made me smile honestly. But Timothy and Seth couldn’t leave me alone. Every day they attacked our class with more and more retard jokes. New material every damn day, almost impressive.

                Nothing happened over summer. It was good to have a break of Tim and Seth, but I missed the few friends I had. The Dixons attempted to connect with me, but they didn’t push, which meant we never connected. But before I knew it, I was returning to school for sophomore year.

                I was walking to my special class when I saw them. Timothy and Seth picked me out of the crowd and walked up to me. Seth threw me against the wall.

                “How was your summer, f****t?” He said mocking my voice.

                “It-it was fine.” I stammered out. Their faces lit up, and I could tell they had something planned. They took me out to the football field.

It was a chilly September morning, and I only wished to leave whatever was going on. There were a few people out there. And as we got closer, I recognized them. The people waiting for me were Ashley, a senior and likely homecoming queen; Kade, typical jock; Ayden, one of their friends; and Veronica. Her presence rattled me the most.

                “Okay retard, we’ve gathered this council here today to show you what being on the bottom is like so you can get used to it.” said Seth. With those words the Veronica and Ashley pulled out their phones and started recording a video. All four guys present started attacking me. They punched and kicked me. They slapped and even choked me. While all of this hurt me, nothing cut deeper than Veronica, a girl I was basically in love with, cheering while four guys beat the s**t out of me.

                When they were finally done, I just laid there. My attackers fled, but I couldn’t find the physical or mental strength to come to my feet.

The doctors told me that I’d broken two ribs and fractured my left arm. But the injuries hardly mattered, I still couldn’t believe that Veronica didn’t really care about me, that she was just like everyone else. No one wanted me to smile, no one wanted me to be okay.

                Veronica stopped volunteering, but would always smirk when she saw me in the halls. Timothy and Seth continued to insult me and would occasionally grab me and “Remind me of my future.”

                The remainder of sophomore and the following junior year were hell. Verbal abuse every day, and physical abuse every now and then.

                But senior year was different. I was tired of taking everything, I wasn’t going to let Seth and Tim be the reincarnation of my father. They weren’t going to continue to remind me that I would never be loved, that there would be no one to embrace me and smile.

                On September 21^st, the eighteenth day of my senior year, I carried the switchblade from the Miles’ house in my back pocket. My plan was to ask them to leave me alone, and if they didn’t, I would threaten them with the knife. I just wanted to be left alone.

                I found myself at lunch, so far free from their barrage of hate. But it was early. “What’s up f****t!?” shouted Tim from behind me.

                “How’s it kicking in tard city?” said Seth, as he shoved me from behind.

                “Go away please.” I said calmly. But that brought a smile to their faces.

                “When did they teach you to talk?” asked Tim, taking his turn to shove me.

                “F**k off.” I said firmly, turning around to look them in the eye.

                “Or what?” taunted Tim.

                “Or I won’t stop when you’re down.” I replied, reaching into my pocket.

                “Retard, I don’t think you know what you’re saying.” Said Tim, high fiving Seth. Yet, before he looked back at me I had jumped up from my seat and tackled him to the ground. I was on top of Tim, hitting him several times, but Seth, a coward, watched in shock. A teacher yanked me off him, and I let the teacher hold me back.

                Tim sat up, and looked at me in disgust. But then, his d********g smile flashed across his face, and he winked at me, happy that they’d gotten a rise out of me and that I would be punished for it.

                With that realization, I blasted through the teacher, drawing my switchblade as I ran. And I tackled Tim again, plunging the knife into the center of his chest as I came down on him. Blood poured out of his torso, painting my hands crimson.

               

                Weeks later, at my hearing, someone asked me why I killed him. My response gave me closure, satisfaction, and justification. “I did it because they killed me. I have no ambition, no drive, nothing left. And I sure as hell won’t get any better from the inside of jail cell. So before you leave to stare at a wall and rot away, I want it to be known that it made me feel something to take the life of one of the demons who tortured me. And I’ll smile at thought of him dying at my hands.”