I hated this place. Not that kind of teenage angst, the "nobody understands" kind of thing, no, i absolutely hated this place, these people. except I loved these three small children. i took care of them, they weren't mine, but they were at the same time. the middle child, 4 years old, 2 years when he came to me. he was mine. nobody wanted him, he was always wanting to play or do something. his mommy wouldn't hug him or show any type of affection. i would, i did. he was my baby. but the way my life was, i was ready to die. i tried to die. they wouldn't even let me die. they came home and caught me, but i'm glad they did, in a way. i had to go, live somewhere else. the last thing i ever got to say to my baby was "sissy loves you, be good" and i kissed his jaw one more time, and walked away crying. i went to a nicer place, where i could pray for my baby. i went to people who could get all three of those kids and put them somewhere safer. they wouldn't. i cried and prayed for my babies. December 3rd, 2010 i came home from school and went to my neighbors house. she was on the phone. she looked at me and just said it. plain as day. "Jr's dead. his step dad killed him. i'm sorry."
i went home. it was raining outside, isn't it always? i couldn't unlock my door. of course. what else to do but wait in the rain and cry my eyes out until my new family got home. My baby, dead. the next few days were a blur. the people i used to live with, acting like they cared. the wake, the funeral, my baby in a casket. I will never forget, never stop, never give up, i will hold my baby again some day. i will pray.