I stared at the number above my bed, the number 53. It was the number of my bed, my mom was in 52 right above me; I could hear her grunt like snores along with all the other women who created the choir I had to bear. My eyes kept finding the number no matter how much I willed my eyes to look away. The same thought kept forcing itself in my mind; how could a number define where I slept at night? And where I lived?
I shut my eyes and tuned out the noises of the room around me. Then without relief, memories flooded my vision; the house, the parties, and the friends I had taken for granted appeared. Fairmont Park came into view and the hours I spent there with my friends and their slanted way of speaking. Next it was his house where it smell of spices bounced off the loud orange walls. The smell of wet grass as we ran through the sprinklers filled my nostrils.
Another memory of her house then as I smelled incense to cover the drugs we had just done the view changed to a fight mom and I had gotten into over where I had been for the night. I never remembered answering her because I think I had forgotten on purpose. Then several months skipped over as I was on moving day. He didn’t come to help and I remember another helping me pack my belongings on a truck and I remember so much crying. I couldn’t even step into the house without breaking down. His hugs comforted me even though he wasn’t the right one. My vision changed and before I saw one more scene I opened my eyes and silent tears bleached my cheeks. After that I wouldn’t close my eyes. Not again.
So instead I stared at the number above my bed, the number 53.