And Home We Went

*This story contains themes of child abuse and neglect It is not a true story, however the theme may ring true for many*

I’m lost. And I know you are too. 

We’re scattered and broken, left on the streets to rot, or shoved behind closed doors to hide from the lady who comes once a week. 

That lady is supposed to help us, protect us. So how come everytime she leaves, we gain another bruise, another cut, another scar. 

I feel lost, and alone. And I know you do too. 

No, don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. For us

Our parents who brought us into this world would do anything they could to forget that we are humans. 

They abuse us, torture us, neglect us. 

We lose all our dignity, self-respect, and sense of worth. 

Because we feel we deserve it. 

We deserve every hateful word, every stinging slap, every prideful punch. We don’t know what we did, but we know we’re bad. From the second we were born, it was a mistake. 

We sit by the hour, waiting for acknowledgement, permission to live. Yet, they sit and drink at their vile bottles and evil pills. They would rather spend their last dollar to get a little more crack, a little more booze, a little more sex, then to put a full meal in their child’s belly or send them to school with clean, warm clothes. 

We get blamed for all of life’s problems. The shortage of money, the crumbs that line the counter, the dead racoon in the front yard. Things we didn’t even know we had control over. Trust me, if I had control over who lived and who died, I would have been dead a while ago. 

Teachers talk. They see the bruises, the cuts, the shame that burns brighter than any cigarette lit to our skin. Some turn a blind eye, others do what they are mandated to do, thinking they are helping us. But really, they're subjecting us to more bursts of anger and accusations from our sperm and egg donors. We get called liars and snakes, being pounded over and over in the head with the fact that no one would ever believe a worthless little brat. 

Everytime the service lady comes to our house, we are fed lies to tell, even though the truth is splayed on our faces, displayed through murals of black and blue. And they believe them. The lies I mean. They believe our mother and fathers, the ones who bind us and shackle us with chains of hate and pain. It becomes life, our way of living. We are nothing without our chains. You can hear them rattle and clunk as we walk down hallways, chasing after hopeless dreams of a better life. Wishing we could make our parents proud. Wishing we could hear the simple words of “I love you” or “I’m proud of you”. Instead we’re met with a stream of endless “you're worthless” and “you never do anything right”. They echo in our minds, leaving us in deafening silence. 

Our minds become an empty space of madness and chaos. 

We start to wonder if maybe we’d be better off dead. 

Maybe then our parents would be happy. Maybe then we’ll make them proud. 

That's all we’ve ever wanted, right? 

For mommy and daddy to be happy? 

We apologize after every slap, punch, and kick. We hold back tears as she throws away our mothers day project we worked so hard on and were so proud of that she reduced to garbage. We zone out as he screams about our poor effort and our worthlessness. We go to school bragging about our parents while our teachers look on with sad faces, knowing the truth. 

We hate our friends knowing how home is. So we come with lies and excuses for not going home. 

“I feel off my bike”

“Me and my brother got into a scuffle”

“My dog scratched me”

“I have practice for so-so”

Every statement adds on another grim layer of sadness and loneliness. We feel as if no one knows what it's like to not belong to the space you go home to every night. No one knows the pain of hiding behind smiles and fake laughs. 

Everyone says my makeup is so good, but they don’t know that the only reason is because I had to learn how to cover bruises and cuts. 

Everyone says that I’m so nice, but they don’t know it's because I spent a lifetime smiling on the outside, feeling hollow on the inside. 

Everyone says I’m easy going, but they don’t know it's because I’ve learned to accept everything that happens to me. Because that’s just how life is. 

Despite all this, despite all the hurt and pain that they have inflicted on us, we still love them . 

We still miss them. We want them to be happy. We forgive them. They deserve it, for all their hard work, right? 

All those late nights, never coming home to help with our homework, to cook us dinner, to hold us and say goodnight. 

All those days, coming home from the store with none of our favorite snacks, forgetting to wake us up for school, forgetting that we need clean clothes and shampoo for our hair. 

All those holidays, forgetting to get us a christmas gift, sending us outside to play in the middle of dead winter while a new man or woman provided more pleasure than we could ever give. We watch through frosted windows as other families laugh and gather around a christmas tree, the ache in our hearts growing to consume us. We stand outside for hours, wondering when heat will come, when food will come, when love and comfort will come. The dancing lights become dark swirls of calming shadows. We close our eyes, knowing that no one will care if they open again. 

“I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry I could never make you happy. I’m sorry you're angry all the time. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. I’ll be good from now on.” 

Finally, a loving embrace circles us. We look up to see Death’s beautiful smile as she picks us up and carries us away from that damned house, from those damned people who never felt a spark of love for their child. Who never saw the value of the life they brought into the world. 

Death whispers to us, calm and soothing, “Come child, come home.” 

And home we went.