CAMI
Iâm on the brink of my senior year and, wouldnât you know it, weâre moving again. My parents, the deadbeats that they are, make me sick. Every move is a desperate escape from child protective services or the law, thanks to their petty thefts. Now, Iâm being yelled at to pack up because weâre leaving in half an hour.
I snatch up my suitcase and duffle bag, stuffing them with whatever I can. Iâve learned to keep my possessions to a minimumâitâs less crap to pack.
Iâm moving as fast as I can when a harsh kick from behind urges me to âhurry the fuck up!â Iâm packing as fast as I can! My parents, the drug addicts and drunks, had a child before me who was taken away when she was little. They moved, waited six years, and then had me. Iâm about five foot six and weigh around one-forty. I keep fit, mostly because Iâm always having to defend myself.
I finish packing, grab my bags, and sprint outside to throw them in the car before jumping in. My mom is the last one out and then weâre on the road again, my dad driving a truck loaded with our mattresses.
We drive for what feels like an eternity until we reach another town. They find a small apartment to rent and we hurriedly move our stuff inside. I lay my mattress on the floor and try to organize my clothes. I find my folded picture of the beach and prop it against the wall. Iâve always loved the beach, even though Iâve never been.
A couple of hours later, I emerge to find my parents passed out. Theyâve mixed drugs with alcohol this time, so it looks like Iâm fending for myself for dinner.
I leave the apartment and head to a local fast food joint, using the few dollars I have to buy something to eat. Maybe I give off a âhard timesâ vibe, because the guy behind me pays for my meal. I thank him and eat quickly, knowing I canât take any food home. I finish my meal, leaving only the soda.
When I return, my parents are awake and clearly pissed.
âWhereâs our food, you ungrateful bitch!â
âI didnât have enough money, Dad. Iâm sorry.â
âSo you get food for us and not you!â
I try to run to my room but my dad catches me, tackling me from behind. He starts punching my face and ribs and I curl up into a fetal position. After a few moments, heâs off me and I crawl into my room, shutting and locking the door.
School starts soon, so at least Iâll be able to eat there. I just have to survive until then. In less than two weeks, Iâll be eighteen and Iâll be out of here for good. I donât care where I go or who Iâm with, as long as Iâm not here.
There have been times when Iâve welcomed death, even tried to commit suicide. Mostly by cutting, but I was always stopped. Iâve even started cutting my legs and arms just to feel something. Anything. The depression is real and I need a way out. I crawl over to my mattress and pray that I wonât have to deal with them for the next few days until school starts.
Just as Iâm about to fall asleep, I hear pounding on my door. Itâs my mom, and sheâs drunk.
âYou start school tomorrow at eight, so make sure your ass is up on time!â
I set my alarm on my phone so I can get up early and walk to the local high school. I want to get checked in and get some food. I quickly sort through my clothes and set aside a pair of ripped jeans and a hoodie.
Most days, I leave my blonde curls down and with my pale blue eyes, I feel pretty. But with my bruises and busted lip, probably not so much. I couldnât care less thoughâI donât have much time left here.
Iâve tried to leave before, but they always clean up and play the victims, and Iâm always brought back. Then we move again. We probably move every six to twelve months, depending on CPS or their petty crimes. Iâm so physically and emotionally exhausted. I stopped making friends because I was tired of losing them. Iâve learned to keep to myself.
Even now, I wonât make any friends because once I turn eighteen, Iâm out of here. They donât give a shit about me, and the feeling is mutual. I just pray that somewhere out there, thereâs someone who can save me. Like a hero, or a guardian angel, or even a knight in shining armor. I laugh at myself because that stuff only happens in movies and books. They donât exist and even if they did, they wouldnât want me. Iâm broken beyond repair, what people would call damaged goods.
Just as I start to drift off, I hear screaming and fighting from the front of the apartment. Things are being thrown around and thereâs no way Iâm leaving my room. I grab my stuff and lock myself in the closet. My parents are probably at it again and I pray someone calls the cops. If they run their names, theyâll find warrants. But no one wants to get involved. Just my luck. So I decide to sleep on my closet floor.