They say that home is where the heart is. But I don’t have a home, so I guess that makes me heartless. I must be cold down to the bone. I’ve never said “I love you” and I’ve never heard it either. Do you know what that’s like? To feel alone, rejected, and neglected by two people who are supposed to love you. The very people who put me on this earth don’t even know me, and they don’t care to know me. Parents are given babies, presents, to raise them and help them grow. Mommy’s and Daddy’s all around the world teach their toddlers how to walk and talk. They sing them the ABC’s, nursery rhymes, and lullabies. Mom’s and Dad’s do their job, they teach their children right from wrong. My parents? I know them quite well, but they don’t know me. When I was four years old I used to roam the streets alone.
People would ask me, “Where’s your Mommy and Daddy little girl?”
As they smiled into my precious little blues I took no hesitation to say, “I don’t know, do you?” Truth is however, I’ve always known where mommy and daddy were, so when I turned five that year I decided not to be a liar. So again when I was prompted with that same question I replied, “Mommy and Daddy are not around.” And that unfortunately was the truth.
What’s it like to have two parents, a mother and a father? What’s it like to have parents that love you? I’ve truly always wondered, but never had the courage to ask why. Mommy and daddy aren’t around. Mommy’s in California searching for her inner-star; on the streets of Hollywood, doped up on heroin, crack cocaine, and metha-metaphine. I’m sure she’s forgotten about her little girl- she’s too high in her metamorphosis of broken dreams. Honestly, though, I think its better that she’s kept her distance. I’m fifteen now, I last saw her when I was nine. It’s better that way. Now when I have nightmares, I no longer call them reality.
When I was six years old, I commonly woke up during my sleep- no one ever kissed me goodnight, or hugged me for comfort. So each night, my little blue blanket comforted me… my parents always told me they wanted a boy. I wish I had a father that was there for me each night. Instead, daddy was there for his clients. Suppliers, customers, sellers and buyers – that’s all he ever knew. He knew the art of a salesman and how to create a client-base. Catching them while they’re young; smokers and drinkers to gateway drugs like marijuana, then finally success was the ultimatum. Teenagers hooked on heroin, my daddy’s specialty. He was a dealer in the first-class degree. I’m sure he felt that he was very discrete; he wasn’t as stealthy as he believed- the cops came that morning. I remember it like yesterday.
Six a.m. sharp I heard shouting by the front door, a clashing and a banging… but these weren’t that of pleasant knocks. I peaked down the hall, and saw our door had been split in two… my daddy was in hand-cuffs and my mommy was too. I was nine years old, what was happening? I didn’t have a clue.
After that day my life was changed, from that moment on “Daddy was in jail- waiting for his next pay day” and “Mommy was in Hollywood searching for her inner-star. And I was here, roaming the streets alone, wondering where I would go. Heartless, with an over-dose of attitude.
There is one secret I have left to tell, I knew all along what would happen when I dialed “911.”