A/N: I've been out of the fan fiction game for too long. But I'm giving it another shot. This one's for you, mom.

Cover art is property of organizationproblems at tumblr.


prologue;
step on a crack


There is nothing sleazier than subconsciously romanticizing the burning plastic and crotch-rot stank of your mother's crack cocaine habit. But since I was about three years old, the smell always felt like home, the same way that maybe the smell of their momma's homemade cooking made other's feel. But the only thing my momma cooked was rock, and so, instead of waking up on Sunday mornings to cinnamon sticky buns and eggs, I awoke to my mother courting her crack pipe as she mumbled the words to Margaritaville as if it were her mantra. She never hid her addiction, probably figuring it would be something I would never think too much of. I was just a little kid. I didn't think too much of anything. But I absolutely adored my mom. I adored her even as I was being taken away. I adored her even though she never fought for me. A part of me still adores her now even though I have not seen her since that day, almost twenty years ago.

Despite her tired eyes and jutting bones and nicotine-stained fingers, I remember her being beautiful. Wild-looking. Exotic. Her hair was thick with red curls that went down her back, stopping right above the calligraphic writing of her tramp-stamp tattoo, and you couldn't go anywhere in the apartment without finding strands of it. Her legs were long. Her irises were a warm brown color, melting away the frigidity of her angular facial features. Many of her teeth were missing, but her smile was still radiant. Had she never gotten knocked up and succumbed to drugs and circumstance, she could've been something great; a model, a news anchor, an actress, a senator. Something to be proud of.

But I don't blame my mom for being a crack head. Hell, I'd be a crack head too if I became a single mother at fifteen, spurned by conservative family and peers. While all her friends from high school reveled in the freedoms of early adulthood, with their fancy diplomas and plans of higher educational pursuits, my mom sold her dignity to whomever promised her rent money or more drugs, staring the little boy who ruined her future in the face every day, looking into the eyes that weren't her own. Many men came and went, but I never knew who my dad was. I liked to think he was an astronaut exploring the cosmos and that one day he'd come back to Earth and save us from our white trash hell. But he never did.

The day I got taken away is still fresh in my mind. It was a hot day. The kind of sticky heat that breeds lethargy. I was wearing nothing but a ratty pair of briefs that were beyond moist with ass sweat, my gaunt limbs sprawled out on the linoleum, trying to absorb whatever coolness it retained. My mom, wearing a stained wife-beater and a pair of pre-owned men's boxers, was shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself and said to me, "Always use your manners, okay Axel?"

"Okay, ma," I said, licking the sweat from my upper lip. She was always preaching good manners and morality whenever she wasn't completely strung out. I went back to fantasizing about doing a cannon ball into a pool full of strawberry ice cream, our favorite.

"Promise me," she said, her bloodshot eyes staring me down with the kind of expectant hope she would give the greasy man on TV who reads off the winning lottery numbers every week. He was the only man I saw on a regular basis and my mother spoke of him as if he were family. Stewart will be on soon, she'd say, we gotta see if we won. We gotta see if we're getting out of this dump. C'mon Stewart, say my numbers.

She spent more money on lottery tickets than she did food, and she spent more money on crack than she did lottery tickets. We were hungry a lot. And we never won the lottery.

"Axel," she said when I didn't immediately answer. "Promise me."

"I promise, momma."

Several minutes passed in near-silence, with only the mechanical hum of the barely functional rotator fan serenading us. Her tears flowed. But that was nothing out of the ordinary. My mom cried a lot. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her I loved her, but before I could force my skin to separate from the spot on the floor where I had melded, there was a loud knock on the door. My mother didn't move. In fact, she seemed to have stilled, contemplating whether to answer it or not. "Axel," she said, barely above a whisper, "Be a good boy, alright? Brush your teeth twice a day and pray every night. Everything's gonna be okay."

I didn't understand, but I nodded dumbly. There was another loud knock and my mom got up to answer it this time, and from the doorway emerged a woman with a tight bun and a beige pantsuit. Behind her were two large police officers. They exchanged muffled words with my mom and she stepped aside looking more defeated and worse for wear than ever, letting the pantsuit woman inside our tiny efficiency. She walked over to me and crouched down, speaking to me with syrupy intonations. She was wearing too much perfume and it was stifling. "Hello, my dear. How are you?"

"I'm okay," I said casually, suppressing a cough. I yearned for air that didn't smell like sweet pea.

She inspected me closely, her eyes trailing down my body, lingering on my visible ribs. Her scrutiny made me feel like I did something wrong. "Are you hungry?" She asked. "I have donuts in my car."

After consuming nothing but Maruchan and canned sausages for as long as I could remember, donuts sounded like heaven. I looked over to my mom for permission and she quickly averted her gaze. "Um, I'd like a donut please," I said unsurely, quickly adding, "If it's okay with momma." From the other side of the room, she never protested.

"Well, I'm sure she's fine with it. My name Miss Jen, and I'm with Children and Family Services." The woman smiled at me, as if I was supposed to know what that meant. There was splotch of her dark red lipstick on her front teeth. "And what's your name, darlin'?"

"Axel, spelled A-X-E-L. Right, momma?"

I tried to look over at her, but the woman, Miss Jen, blocked my view. My mom let out another sob. "And how old are you, Axel?"

I held up five fingers, wondering how many more questions I'd have to answer for a donut.

As if reading my mind, she said, "Well, Axel, why don't you get on some clothes and we'll go get some donuts, okay?"

"Can momma have some too?"

Miss Jen hesitated. "Well, I think these nice officers would like to talk to her first. Where are your clothes kept?"

In the single room that comprised of our entire apartment, save a small bathroom in the back, my stuff was all kept in a neat little pile. I pointed to it and Miss Jen took it upon herself to begin sorting through it, pulling out the more salvageable garments and putting them in a canvas bag she had brought with her. She handed me a t-shirt and some stained khaki shorts. "Do you have any toys? Shoes?" I shook my head. I outgrew my last pair of thrift store sneakers and I had not yet gotten another pair.

After I was dressed and my few belongings were confiscated, Miss Jen led me towards the front door where my mom was still standing, having a hushed exchange with one cop who was taking things down on a small notepad as she rubbed her eyes raw with the backs of her skeletal hands. She didn't look at me when we walked out the door. There were no tearful farewells, no well-wishes or exclamations of utmost love. Nobody told me that I would never see my mother again, and all I could think about were the donuts I was promised.

I never thought of my mom as a bad mom because I never got toys or new shoes, or because sometimes days would pass before I would have a full meal. I don't even resent her for being a drug addict. She was a bad mother because she let them take me from the only home and family I knew.

After that day was when my slew of non-permanence began.

The first few years were, of course, the worst. Because a small kid can't quite comprehend the concept of abandonment. You wake up every day with a false sense of hope that you'll go home and everything will be fine. But as each day passes, you slowly come to the realization that this is it. This is your life now.

I bounced around from group homes to foster families to various boys' wards around the county and I wasn't a stranger to the cots at juvenile hall. I was never in one place for very long. By the time I was ten, I had a criminal record, and most of my free time was spent doing community service bullshit to make up for my petty injustices. I made friends through the years, but our destinies were always different. Everything was temporary. After a while, you become used to it, and instead of adapting, you become apathetic. You start to realize your existence is a burden on others and that no matter where you wind up, you'll just be thrown back. No one wants a broken kid any more than they want a broken television or broken car.

And on my eighteenth birthday, I was kicked awake by my at-the-time foster mom (a harsh woman who loved collecting state welfare checks, a common breed) and told I had to leave. I knew it was coming, I had meetings with my assigned case worker days before who made me come up with "plans" and "goals" for when I was on my own. "These are the big leagues," he told me. "If you fuck up now, you'll wind up spending your life in a prison cell giving handies for an extra bologna sandwich." Jokes on him, though. I don't even like bologna.

For the first time in my life, I was completely free to do whatever I wanted. It was a day I had dreamed about for so long. Too bad nobody warned me that in the real world, you weren't guaranteed a meal or a place to sleep. I spent the night of my eighteenth birthday sleeping on a park bench, my stomach threatening to eat itself from the inside, as I tried my hardest not to cry.

But, like a phoenix, I knew I had to rise from the ashes of my fucked up existence. I pushed aside years' worth of self-pity and gave my estranged mother the mental middle finger. I was not about to let the world swallow me whole again.