Mikaela

July 16, 2009
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The rain drenched me through and through, soaking my skin. Even with my hood pulled tight, my black hair was soaked and stuck to my rosy cheeks.

Did God hate me?

I turned to the glowering clouds for an answer.

“Why?” I cried. This was the most horrible way to end a horrible day.

The teasing was none stop. “Mikaela, you spelled your name wrong. Michaela is spelled M-I-C-H-A-E-L-A. I guess flunking spelling runs in the family. You wouldn't know would you, your parents got so fed up with you they just left.”

Everything about my looks were perfect: I had straight black hair that most girls would die to have, my blue eyes sparkled in the glow of even the dullest of lights, and my body was skinny and curvy like that of a supper model. Yet, even with my looks, my whole life was screwed up.

It was true, my parents were gone, but they didn't leave me. No one knew what happened to them, no one but me. I remember the day perfectly even though I was merely three.

My mom hugged me close. “I love you, sweetheart,” she cooed, leaving out the 'I'll be here when you wake up' part, but I didn't notice. She kissed me on forehead and then on both cheeks before handing me off to my father. He swung me in the air and carried me up to the large bedroom I had all for myself. I snuggled into the crib that held me prisoner during the night.

“Goodnight Mikaela.” The light clicked off and I was alone in the darkness.

She didn't scream, she just cried, a small whimper. My brave mother cried. My father tried to reason.

“We can make a deal. I'll give you what ever you want.”

“I don't want anything you can give me,” a deep voice snarled. “I want the both of you dead.” My mother sobbed, louder this time.

I crawled out of my crib; I had mastered that skill well. My mother's sobbing stopped abruptly, and my father's stared but then stopped as I silently reached the bottom of the steps.

I watched horror struck as the plastic covered man carried my parents lifeless bodies out of the house and in to the dark night.

The house looked untouched like we were out on vacation. It was a murder that no one could solve. It was as if my parents vanished off the face of the earth.


Now, stranded in the rain, on my was to my unloving foster parents' house, I wished that I hadn't lied when the police asked me if I knew what had happened. I told them that I didn't know, even though that was the only memory I had of my loving parents.





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penny said...
Sept. 20, 2009 at 1:09 pm
Sorry about the misspellings in my quote this is what it is supposed to say:
I saw a painting and wrote this story from what i thought the story the painting was trying to tell. I don't know who the artist of the painting is but thank you to young painters of the world.
 
penny said...
Jul. 22, 2009 at 8:42 pm
This is the favorite piece I have Writen so far
 
CrazyClimber replied...
Oct. 19, 2009 at 4:47 pm
well it is pretty good. i like the teasing, and the description
 
penny replied...
Oct. 19, 2009 at 7:21 pm
thank you so much it is a bit of what i feel in my everyday life as well as wht i see go on. as i said this writing is based on a painting i say. i figured out the author is Charlie Bowater and thought i should give her some credit
 
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