Fandom: Street Sharks
- Characters: Rox
Rating: PG
Notes: I've had this 4/5s finished for a while. Because Melvin's cute when he's not being obnoxious (and needless to say, that's most of the time). That, and his background is fair game. Of course, not being Canadian, 8D word usage is probably wrong. So. Please flog me if it comes to that.
I was never really that different.
My parents weren't my real parents when it came down to the technical stuff: blood, skin, and overall ethnicity. The other kids only saw that outside appearance though. Their child was Caucasian and resembled neither. Except the other kids could never know how lucky I was, to be given to a family who was just like me.
Orphans.
It sometimes bothered me that I didn't look like them, or sometimes that they didn't look like me. My classmates and the kids at the playground would tease me when they found out Mom was French-Canadian with obvious Irish roots and Pop was a black man from Wisconsin. "They're not your really mommy and daddy."
I always had to tell them, "At least mine love me!" Because when you were seven, eight years old, you could never properly explain what your parents tell you. I could never get the words across that my parents were perfectly capable of having their own children, but they chose to adopt the misfortunate brat with a temper rather than birth one.
I was five when they came, in the orphanage where couples of all types came to take away the other children. Being five, I couldn't really be bitter, but I did want parents. But who wanted a kid that was prone to bullying? Yes, I was a bully. I was mean to the other kids. I stole their things, I pulled their hair, I pushed them in mud puddles. They said I wanted attention; damn right I wanted attention. People told me time and time again that being naughty wasn't going to get me adopted; I didn't listen.
In the end, my method was right and theirs was wrong. Collin and Natalie wanted me and took me away from there after a time, with 'proof of purchase' and all ready for my arrival. It may've taken more than a year to consider them my parents, with home schooled lessons until I was almost seven and treatment that baffled me, but it hit me one day.
I was lucky.
I caused them grief, I made them proud, I tested their limits on tolerance of my actions, and always did I want their approval. Mom wasn't very thrilled when I was considering forming a rock band in the garage ("But they do it on TV!"), but the farthest I got on it was simply self-teaching myself how to play guitar (thanks, Pop, for that one). Who needed a band when you, yourself, and you could be the star all to yourself?
Singing took a bit more to get down pat. Lessons at school were embarrassing and degrading, especially when you were a punk with a reputation, and force to join the chorus. Thank you, secondary school.
Odd how my life became a series of lucky breaks. I would even go far as to say, now, that my lack of luck was simply the break I needed to obtain what I wanted: stardom.
But that was much farther down the path of life. Back when I was still just a young teenager, my luck didn't seem like luck. I had a few good friends; we did all sorts of different things together. Drugs, alcohol, I might've lost my virginity at sixteen, but if I didn't then, I did a few months later.
And when my parents did find out, it was a living hell.
Seeing how much they were disappointed in me hurt, when I finally got around to figuring it out passed the shield of Teenage Rebellion. Because I was supposed to be grateful. They took me away from a life of misery, and I brought on the misery despite their effort. "Should have known better" this, "We raised you better" that.
When your parents aren't your real parents, you either see them as your enemy in a fake life you lied to yourself about, or you suddenly appreciate them more for a bigger sacrifice they made among themselves.
Don't get me wrong; at the time, it was option number one for a LONG time. I was not Canada's number one son for a good long while, and it took a bit of rehab and therapy to come to the other conclusion. And only then did the 'family healing' start. Let me tell you, being served a piece of humble pie is not the greatest sensation, especially when you have to bow your head and confess to your parents they were right.
I turned out to be one of the few orphans who never bothered to look for their blood parents. Too many movies, you know? Nothing good ever came from finding them. If either wanted me in my life, they would have been looking now, and I shouldn't have been hard to find: we only moved twice, and there were only so many orphanages in the area. I always imagined them to be dead-beat assholes anyway; it was easier to believe.
So, here I am, in the flesh: I'm not perfect, I've done every questionable thing you can do to abuse your body, and I still have parents who love me. ...They weren't quite showing the love when I told them I was taking a rather-long road trip to the USA and get myself a music label, but they can't blame me now, since I got one.
...Of course, I haven't told them that yet, or the fact that the only reason I have one is because I'm masquerading as a human-in-a-suit instead of an honest mutant. Seriously, can you blame me?
So no, I'm not different. I have friends (somewhere), family (left ignorant), and a dream (which I found, under rather questionable pretenses). Pearly triangle teeth and blue skin aside.