Before You Judge

August 14, 2011
By Anonymous

"Get out of my house. You are not welcome here anymore, Nicola. You are a disgrace. You are not nor have you ever been a daughter of mine." With that, my foster father turned away. I looked to my foster mother, who looked back at me with disappointment. She shook her head. She hadn't said a word.

I went upstairs to my room, grabbed a duffle bag, and filled it. I put in a pair of jeans, a tank top, my switchblade, cell phone, charger, and laptop. I went into my parents- or, rather, my foster parents'- room and checked under their mattress. I felt no qualms about taking all seven hundred and sixty eight dollars and shoving it into my duffle.

I walked downstairs and out the door without a look back.

I walked four miles to the subway. I got on, and sat for a while. I had known the minute they showed up at her house that I wouldn't be living with them any longer. They had met her once before, and did not approve of her. Of course, that didn't surprise me. The fact that they found me at her house, sleeping on her couch with my feet propped up in her lap certainly didn't help.

They assumed a lot, of course. They dragged me out of her house. They drove me back to their house. Then they preached. I have nothing against people who are religious, but I didn't appreciate them passing judgment. I firmly believe that everyone should be able to make their own choices and live how they want.

My foster father told me how I was a disgrace. He told me my ways- again, here he was assuming- were unethical, and I would burn in H*ll. That may be, I told him, but I wanted to be able to live my life how I want. That p*ssed him off quite a bit.

He had never raised a hand towards me, but that night it came close.

I got off the subway on a random stop. I looked around. I didn't have a clue where I was. The station was dark and dirty. I started walking in a random direction. All I had with me was my duffle bag and the clothes I was wearing; a leather jacket over a plain red shirt, dark jeans, and motorcycle boots. I subtly pulled out the switchblade and slipped it into my sleeve. I had walked about a mile when I passed a particularly dark alley.

"Hey, baby, you want some company?" some guy called out in a scratchy voice. I kept walking. "Hey, don't ignore me!" he yelled. I kept walking and slipped out the switchblade. He didn't bother me after that.

I walked and walked, until I found a decent looking Motel 6. I checked in and went to the room they provided. It was summer, so I wouldn't be going to school any time soon. One less thing to think about.

I dropped my duffle on the floor, checked the bed for bugs and/or other unidentifiable creatures, then cautiously laid down. After a moment, I sat up and grabbed my cell phone from my duffle.

I flipped it open and dialed my favorite number by heart.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you for hours, where have you been?" she asked as soon as she answered.

"The fosters kicked me out. I'm at a motel," I answered lightly. I didn't see a need to make it into a big deal. Already I was feeling a bit better.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so, so sorry, Nicola!" she exclaimed. The line was silent for a moment, and then I heard shuffling around. "What's the address of the motel?" she asked.

I gave her the name of the motel and what street it was on.

"Stay there. I'm coming to get you."

"What? No! You don't need to do that, I'm perfectly fine," I assured her.

She answered quietly, "I know I don't need to. I want to." She hung up.

I tossed the phone on the bed and sighed. She lived alone, so she wouldn't be getting into trouble for this late night excursion, at least.

An hour later, there was a knock on my motel door. I got up and opened it a crack. I opened it wider when I saw it was her. My face broke into a grin.

"I love you," she said when she came inside.

"I love you, too," I answered.

I may have been kicked out of the place I had lived for four years.
I may have been alone until I found somewhere else to live.
I may have lead an unhappy life.
Because she showed up that night, I didn't.
Call me unethical, call me a demon, curse me to H*ll for loving a woman.
I ask of you this:
Consider the fact that you can't always choose who you fall in love with.
Yes, its cheesy and overused, but I believe it is true.
Think about that, and then judge.

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