Prisoner

TW

TW: rape, suicidal ideation

    Parties are terrible. Nothing but an open space for lunatics to lock you in a house and act horrendously. Heathens my Mother would call them. Devil's advocates who sip beers and smoke Cannabis. The devil's advocates were seventeen year olds throwing birthday parties for their favorite friends. Unlike my parents, their parents own three story vacant houses for their children to wreck while they're gone. Parties, police..memories. Memories could be horrid or good. I personally prefer the good memories..but I've never had good memories stemming from parties. Such a ridiculous thing, I've let something from three years ago weigh in my heart and stop me from doing things now. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's my hell bent mother who thinks I'm a sinner if I attend any festive party. At seventeen years old I'm still afraid to step foot into any event with over three people and at seventeen years old my mother won't let me leave the house without permission. Shunned from the world. I've missed everything. The life lessons, the friends, the girlfriends or boyfriends, the betrayals, the drama. Am I lucky? I don't feel lucky sitting here watching kids trail down my street to the event on the next block. I don't feel lucky that their skin is littered with childhood scrapes and bumps and the only scrape I have is from my curling iron. I don't feel lucky even when the sun beams on my hair and warms it. But I am lucky, my mother would say. I refrain from telling her I'm not. No car, no license, no permit, no identification card...even if I wanted to leave I'm shackled in this house like an animal. No perspective of the outside world, only school and home. Occasionally the grocery store. This is not being lucky. This is being a prisoner. I am lucky to be a prisoner or else I'll end up a sinner like the other children. But one asks.. would you rather have the fruit of life in your palm as a sinner, or be weighed down with chains as a prisoner. 

      It wasn't always this way. From Pre-K to ninth grade I wasn't a captive. I ran and played outside. I went to sleepovers, stayed at after school activities, read books in the corner of libraries. I was normal. It was normal. My mother, my sister, my father were normal. My normal shattered to fragments because I did those free things. One afternoon I had read in the library, ended up staying late. The thought of even considering doing such an act leaves a shiver down my spine. I was walking home. With other's. The library was only a block away from my home, I wouldn't be too late to dinner. Up and down the block you would see the elementary children playing freeze tag, regular tag, cartoon character tag, every tag game in the book of tag games. They played hopscotch, Marco Polo. Hard to play Marco Polo in the burning sun. They ran in and out of their houses carrying bottles of water and juice for each other. A gift children have, not the greediness of adults; they'd share everything. They would lay on their backs on the hot concrete as contests, jump rope and sing Little Sally Walker songs. My little sister was a fan of these songs. Came home and sang them at the dinner table, performed the dance inside. This afternoon I expected no less than to see her with a group of kids singing this song. So as I walked down the street I had no inclination of looking for her, she instinctively followed me home when seeing me walk home. Saying her last hugs and goodbyes as if she wouldn't see them for years. But this day I saw no little sister. I even walked as far to our driveway...still no little sister. I dropped my books and ran down the street to look again, and she came out of the bushes. Her shorts torn, her shirt split down the middle. I was in such dismay I snatched her into my arms and ran down the street back into our driveway. She stood a few feet away from me. She wasn't herself. She was scared...you could see it in her eyes.

    The rest of the events were so rushed. Blood on the concrete. Her little head ripped open from the bullet. A drive by. The whole block of kids froze and saw the bullet rip into her. The spectacle..was something. I didn't believe it. So I sat there for the ten minutes lying next to her, never mind the concrete burning such a heat into my skin it was sore for me to be touched. They thought I was dead as well when they rushed out our screen door and saw the pool of blood. I was in shock. We later found out she was mutilated in the bushes. How dumb of me not to inspect her and take her inside. I was stupid stupid stupid. I often blame myself for her death, forcing this idea that I am lucky that I won't have to witness death again. This turn of events caused my Father to get admitted to a mental hospital and my mother barely escaped getting admitted to one. Someone had to look over dear me after all. Hectic, chaotic..then there was me laying on the concrete. My mother was so paranoid and protective she didn't even open the blinds. You may imagine her reaction and defensiveness when I asked to walk down the street to the party. She yelled, screamed, threw a vase at my head. It shattered and knocked me out for at least thirty minutes before I walked out the front door.

   I stood on our lawn for an extra ten minutes. I was lost in my own front yard. Stepping into the street was like stepping into a lost world where three year olds die. But I trundled onto the birthday party. I didn't feel lucky knocking on that door. I didn't feel lucky when the host realized who I was and gave me such a sad stare it weighed me down like a truck on ice. So when I walked in and sat down...I felt lucky to be ignored. They didn't pity me, ask questions. They didn't force conversation, they gave me a slight glance. They didn't but someone did. My peace on the couch interfered. The party paused. This is exactly what my Mother warned me of, told me to stay away from sinners; something always terrible happens when the holy is with murderers and such. I should have listened to her, never came, let her clean the cuts all along my face. I should have sat with her and discussed it first. I should have...done something. I did absolutely nothing but disobey her and now I will be the one dead, and it'll be my fault. Because I didn't listen to my mother, I didn't save my sister, I didn't talk to my dad. She was right and I was stupid stupid stupid. Kids who play in the streets die and only she can stop such a - the doorbell rings.

     I heave in air in my chest, I was having a panic attack and meltdown at my first party in three years. I wasn't invited, told to come..I just came. Such a disobedient girl. Yelling erupted from the front door and my glasses failed me. I look... but I refuse to see. My mother was standing there. Red with furry. Her hand splattered with the blood from my cut. They all know she's my mother. I may not get around alot but I hear whispers when I walk past other children in school. Isn't that the girl who played in her sister's blood? Yea her mom's a crazy old bat. On cue as if they hear my chest rattling they all look at me. Familiar faces. The ones that used to play with my sister. Then the laughter begins. " What did I tell you?! These sinners care nothing about you, come now." My mother grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me back home. They recorded it all. I'm sure I'll be trending for the few upcoming weeks. I am a prisoner, I am not free. I am lucky to be a prisoner...if freedom is having panic attacks and being dragged like a child down the street I don't want it. I don't want to be here... on this Earth. As a prisoner or free. I think I would rather die.