Mute.

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As I sit in the dusty window, eyes blood shot red from crying, a van pulled up. As a tall caucasian man approaches, the blood in my vains freeze. The air gets cold, and whenever I try to breathe my breathes are shortened. They're coming for me agian . As the man approaches, right foot first, then left. I walks to the door. I flash back to the memories of what I thought was finally happiness, they are now shock . CREEEEEK. The wooden door opens to await my fate, he enters. I have seen this man before, he has pail, brown hair, and blue eyes. Is he here for me I whisper under my breathe . Trying to hide under the satin curtains behind the filthy window. He comes closer, closer, closer. His footsteps suddently come to a stop, and I am scared. I have not felt this way in a long time. His hand expands and opens the curtain, he says no words, only gestures. For this has become a regular thing whenever he or anyone comes to get me. His mouth opens, but I do not hear any words. I can't hear him ! He continues to speak, the stranger that I have been living with for the past 3 months opens her mouth, and agian no words. I am speechless. I also open my mouth, and a strange noise comes out. What have they done to my voice? Why cant I speak? As I wave to the stranger, I leave. In the old, beat up black van, I think back to how I got there, and where I plan on going.



It's been 4 years since my mom passed away. Some ask me in school if I am sad or angry when her anniversary or birthday comes around. I hold my head up, proudly say “no” and walk into the 3rd floor bathroom, and cry.

It hurts to know that your mother never wanted you or needed you in her life. But when your mother is a junkie, you have no choice but to shut your mouth.

As a young black girl in Harlem, you are taught to have babies by dead beat dads that dont want anything to do with you, and the boys are expected to sell drugs to survive.

You aren't expected to go anywhere. I lived in a broke down building in Harlem.The elevators smelled like urine, and the walls have writting all over them, and we didnt have hot water so we had to heat our water on the stove to wash.The rats in that building were so big that you would think they were pet cats. The only people walking around my building were drug dealers, prostitutes , and sometimes even young children on there way to becoming one.

It was terrible. Everyday the children got younger.

As I'm speaking to you, I am 16 years of age. My life in Harlem was a living hell. My mother didnt want anything to do with me, and my father the same. He left us when I was 7 months. Or so my mom says. I never really knew him like that, the only thing I knew was that he was a tall and handsome black man. My mom tried to hide pictures of him in her dresser drawer. But I always went in there to sneek a peek at him. Even though I never knew him I feel as if I knew him it would make my life a little better if I did. Mom had me when she was 15 years old, so she didn't really have any place to go when her mother kicked her out, but the streets. She has lived in our rat infested apartment since she was 4 months pregnant with me. And as I got older, it seemed as if she began to care about me less. She was never home. But I always knew that if I needed to find her that she would be on the corner of 119th street and Lenox Ave. She would always be standing there, in her tight dress, and h**ker heels. Even in the pouring rain, she would be on that corner getting her money, but thats one thing that I didnt blame her for. She was born to think that that was her only purpose. I had to hide my head in school because the kids always make fun of me.

My reason for hating my mother began on March 22. That day she put me to work. At her job.


It hurt to have to sell my body to pay for my mother's drug addiction. I thought she would stop the men when they savagely raped me for the first time on our kitchen floor. I remember it like it was yesterday. My mom stormed into the house, after she had stolen a bag of heroin. The two drug dealers came in asking for their bag back and my mom claimed that she didn't have it. They told her that they would kill her if they didn't get back their drugs. She looked at me, right in my hazel eyes and said, “No wait, I don't have it but you can have her”. She pointed at me with shame in her eyes.

Was this real I thought to myself. Is this really about to happen? Did she just trade my virgin body to help herself?

They said no more and looked my 15 year old frame up and down, and the rest is hidden behind my tears. I think back to when I was little and wonder if my mother loved me then. Was I ever important to her? The same two questions I never got to ask my mother. She was never home, and when she was, she was always in her room getting high.


We are here. In my new home, it is quiet. There are no kids, no plants, not even the sound of the wind. Only my heartbeat. This must be my new home, I tell myself as I approach the steps. An old man about 54 years of age opens the glass door. As he looks at me, the pity in his eyes show through the wrinkles in his face. Why does this man look at me in such a way? I am grown now so I have found it ridiculous to use my strret slang around these old men. When I go into a home, I try to be what I think they want me to be, just like in Harlem. That way they wont sent me back there. I stare into the mans eyes as if I can tell his emotion. But I get no response. He simple looks at me and says "come in darling". I enter the big white building, and the man puts his cold hand on my skimpy adolesent shoulders. We walk down the long hallway, I hear nothing. He waves farewell to the drop off van guy. And to me he leds upstairs. He loosens his grip when we get to a pink door on our right. I have a sudden flash back of when my mom sold me to those two drug dealers and pass out.

This is my 7th home this year and im still not happy.I have awaken from my sleep, and am in a room . I look out the window. It reminds me of Harlem. It gets dark since its winter and everyone begins to spread like ants, so the police dont catch them all. My mom being the aggressive , always gets her way ant.She sprays on her flee market perfume, puts on her red h**ker heels with the silver straps, and her pink and red sleeveless dress and heads out the door. As she's walking, I watch her from the window. She walks slowly as to gang up on her prey. BAM! There he is,short ,african american and lots of jewelry. He is a regular whenever my mom comes out. She looks up into the window as if I am suppose to wish her good luck but instead a tear falls because as soon as the man makes a slight turn, I see it. The shine catches my eye off guard so I look harder this time, almost popping a blood vesil. As my pupils enlarge it hits me, its a badge. I signal for my mother to come back into the apartment building; but instead she still proceeds toward the car, and enters without caution. My mind is blank as I have just see the last of my mother. As my mother enters what looks like a dirty bmw, the tear that dried on my face was wiped off with a kleenex. I think in my mind of what she has put me through, and that maybe she deserves what is coming towards her. That is untill the phone began to ring 30 minutes later. Its her, she says that she needs my help to bail here out. All of my anger begins to explode on the telephone, this was my only chance to show my mother how I feel without having to see her face. I take my advantage to its highest point and hang up on my mother. There is no way that I can get her out because I had spent all of our profits on something. I could imagine the grief on her face. She couldn't believe what I had just did to her and niether could I . For the first time in my life, I felt as if I had gotten my womanhood back. "Is this what it felt like to be a woman?" I asked myself. If this is what it felt like then I loved it.

I exhaled slowly, and went into my room. As I layed there on the bed. I think if what I had just done was the right decision. But isnt the only way to punish someone by letting them weep in their sorrow? I am comfused, I am silent , and I am hungry. I think of what would happen if I could actually talk to my mohter about things. I think of what it would be like to maybe one day hug my mother. Things that were taken away from me at a very young age. Things I have never gotten enjoyment from before.

I grab my things, and head out the door. I didnt know where I was going but I didnt want to be here when my mom got back. With any luck they only allowed her one phone call.
As I walked on the filthy street of what I once thought was my home, I began to get tired. There wasnt any hotel for the next 3 miles, and I didnt know what to do. I was scared, and alone. I didnt know anyone that I really trusted so I was alone on the streets until late at night. As the light grew to dark I began to get back to the real world where comman sense actually exsited. I had no coice but to go home. My mom was the only one I had. If I went to a friends house, I couldnt stay there forever. And at one point ofcoarse they would get suspicion, I couldnt tell them that I had ran away. But I knew I had no other opition, and that wasnt a choice.





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This article has 15 comments. Post your own now!

Sumana2 said...
Apr. 29, 2010 at 7:15 am
This story was breath-taking. i feel for the main character as if she's right here next to me and telling me her story. Beautiful visual imagery. Great job!
 
NormandyNomad said...
Apr. 26, 2010 at 2:21 pm
The story itself was pretty good, however you had quite a few grammatical errors and "funky" sentences. Also, even though it's not a major thing, any numbers below 10 (others think 100) should be written out as "four" instead of "4". But overall, I really liked your piece and I hope you write more!
 
Shanaya. replied...
Apr. 27, 2010 at 11:12 am
i am dont worry ; and i will work on my grammer in the future .
 
notebookgirl said...
Apr. 25, 2010 at 2:56 pm
powerful descriptions i could almost vizualize the streets. the grammar sort of works in this story because the protagonist is someone whose grammar probably wouldn't be 100% perfect but i would work on it for your other stories
 
AjitN said...
Apr. 25, 2010 at 3:32 am

Hey, good story. Sad, but great. check mine out too

TeenInk.com/fiction/realistic_fiction/article/197655/The-Angel-at-the-Window/

 
Shanaya. replied...
Apr. 30, 2010 at 11:02 am
ok i will check it now
 
Mostly_Dead said...
Apr. 24, 2010 at 1:09 am
I like the story, but it's not well-worded and the grammar's sketchy as well as the spelling. In all other aspects, I think it's wonderful.
 
Shanaya. replied...
Apr. 24, 2010 at 4:36 pm
thanx . I have more work on here . you should check it out . I think you would really like it .
 
writergirl13 said...
Apr. 23, 2010 at 8:44 pm
This is amazing but it's also so heartwrenching. Knowing that there are thousands of children living in the world right now, in the U.S., in some parts of Asia, and a lot in Darfur really makes you want to reach out to them and offer them a helping hand. Kids should not have to go through this, they should not be raped, especially because their parents have a drug addiction that they don't know how to pay for so they use their children as slaves for that addiction. I'll stop rambling now, but re... (more »)
 
dmdjlm said...
Apr. 7, 2010 at 1:58 am
Hey Shanaya,..it's uncle Jimmie. I've read your story and I have to say that this made for very interesting reading. What makes it so is the writers ability to capture the readers attention and to make that reader want to continue to read more. Well,...you've caught my attention. BRAVO. The only negative thing about this story was that it ended abruptly. I was captivated and now the story ends. I want more!!!....Give me more!!!
 
daddy replied...
Apr. 7, 2010 at 4:34 pm
wow!thats all i can say amazingly put together!!!call me
 
rosie said...
Apr. 6, 2010 at 10:31 pm

 

This story is sad, and it breaks my heart that alot of children can relate to this story in so many ways. very good work and keep on writing.

 
Yvonne said...
Apr. 6, 2010 at 9:40 pm
Shanaya great job. Keep on writing girl your on your way to great things, so be strong and continue being you in your written expression.
 
niaaa . said...
Apr. 5, 2010 at 12:16 pm
heyy i kno the person who created this story . gud job and congrats  _____ =] 
 
Shanaya. replied...
Apr. 5, 2010 at 1:00 pm
Lol ; I know, I did . Im the best !
 
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