The world's been unkind to me
Yet I refused to surrender to thee
For they say, in time, good comes to the good
But how long shall I wait until it should?
The last memory I possessed of my mother was her fear stricken face as I unwillingly witnessed her murder ensue. I expected her to close her eyes tightly–until I could barely see her eyelashes. I expected her to scream incoherently, but instead, she locked her eyes firmly with mine and smiled serenely. Before he delivered his deadly blow, my dear mother uttered my name, one last time, from her rosy lips, Brittany.
No one can say my name as beautifully as she did. She was the person who was closest to my heart. With her, I felt important, special in some way. When she smiled, the lucid luminosity could outshine everyone. When she spoke, the soothing lullaby could lull anyone to sleep. When she embraced, the immense warmth could give anyone calm solace. She was one in a million; she was my wonderful mother, but even my love for her could not save her from the tragedy that aroused.
I was helpless, like any ten year old, who would confront such a catastrophic nightmare. I could not help her when she took her last breath in my name. I watched her tragic demise occur without my consent and without preparation.
I was not ready for the horrifying death of my precious mother. And probably, I would never be. Yet, within seconds, she was snatched away from me, like a pitiful puppet bound by my fragile threads.
Watching the light snatched away from her eyes, I felt my innocent heart ripped apart by the murderer, my father.
Ever since that day, I roamed…roamed around foster homes, unable to settle permanently into any one of the bitter dwellings. The moratorium of a home left me deprived of optimistic emotions. I remained isolated in the darkest corner of the world where no soul could witness my desperate cries for the touch of bliss.
Nobody wanted me. And possibly, I could never be wanted.
Until after six years, when I heard that my father was sentenced to life without parole. The lady in charge of the foster care told me I would be adopted. I asked her what adopted means.
"It means they can't send you back here anymore. You'll stay in their house forever," she told me.
"I'm scared," I confessed.
"Don't be sweetie, if they're adopting you, that means, they'll take care of you real good. You got nothing to worry 'bout." She laughed loudly. I smiled, reassured by her words.
From then on, I counted down the days until I would finally be in my new home. It wasn't long; the days passed by very quickly as there were only legal papers to fill out and legal matters to finalize. They lady in charge introduced me to my new mother and father. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Lopez.
"Hello," I spoke softly. Looking at me, they made sounds like "aw" and said things like "so cute". I smiled although I didn't like their portrayed image of me.
"What's your name?" Mrs. Lopez asked.
"Brittany Pierce" I stated.
"That's a lovely name, what do you think dear?" she asked her husband.
"Yes, that sounds nice." He approved.
"Do I have to change my last name to Lopez?" I asked them before thinking. I bit my tongue, regretting it immediately.
"Oh dear, that won't be necessary." She laughed. Her laughter was warm, like sweet honey I smiled hearing her serene laughter. "I want you to keep your surname. After all, it is part of your identity. Don't forget who you are sweetheart."
"Let's take you home sweetie," I felt Mr. Lopez's arm around my shoulder as I stepped out of my foster care, forever.
However, along with leaving the foster care, I, in time, realized that I had left my dignity, identity, and happiness too and that, forever.
In a few years, Mr. Lopez, my new father, was dead. I had not known him for a long time but he had become someone special in my heart. He was kind to me, and though strange, he reminded me of my mother. Mrs. Lopez, my new mother, was just as generous, treating me with the utmost sincerity. I was thankful every day to God for the home and family I was blessed with. I told Him, I take back all the bad things I said to Him when He took my mother to heaven. He had given me much more in exchange, leaving me far less than unhappy. I was serendipitous, a four-leaf clover with endless fortune.
But, yet again, He took my father away from me.
And everything changed. Everything.
As if the world had revolved one-eighty degrees suddenly, I became ill-fated. My new mother changed into a cynical misanthrope. She refused to drop me off to school. She impeded her daily routine of coming in to kiss me good night. Most of all, Mama rejected my every word and denied my very existence. I was no more, the precious child to her. I was someone she could not abide. But I believed that within gradual time, she would become herself again.
Then one night, I heard her speaking to James, her younger biological son. He was eight.
"It's all her fault. That stupid, disgusting orphan. Do you understand?" She whispered to him. "She took away your father."
I heard wrong, I thought. I shook my head, listening again.
"She took away everything, my husband, your father, our happiness." She said, firmly holding the young James. My lips quivered as I ran into my room.
I thought it was temporary, her hatred "act". I was wrong. It wasn't temporary, nor was it an act. She truly believed that his death was caused by none other than me. I could not apprehend such a drastic misunderstanding; in what way I could've impacted his death. But then again, it didn't matter. To her, I was the murderer of her husband.
She moved my belongings to the basement and demanded that I stay out of her sight. I spoke no word, nonetheless of her abusive behaviour. I became a recluse in the comfort of the blank walls surrounding me. When I did come out of my new room, I was confronted by her aggressive, violent attitude. She would not spare me mercy. Her rash behaviour resulted into me ending up pushed to the floor, her feet squishing me to the ground.
Then, I realized that her resentment would not alleviate within time. It was permanent and unremitting. Her kindness was just a figment of my memory, never to be reawakened.
There was one person, however, who began to rescue me from her ill-treatment. Santana, who was supposedly my foster sister, but she told me from the first day I met her to never think of her as my sister.
"I will never think of you as my sister." She spoke arrogantly. "Don't expect anything from you."
I had agreed immediately and scurried off to my room. She never spoke to me, hardly liking the idea of staying in the same room with me. I struggled to evade her presence too, refusing to confront her possible rash behaviour.
Yet, somehow she had become my protector.
"I'm sorry," I said the first day she saw me sprawled on the ground, my blood tainting the kitchen floor. "I'll leave."
I fought to gain my balance but since my leg was twisted, I could not stand on an upright position. She hurried to my aid, holding my arms over her shoulder. She picked me up gently, whispering optimistic words of encouragement in my ear. I bit my lip, wincing as I realized that my bottom lip was cleaved too. Blood oozed out of my lip, trickling down my chin. She groaned from rage, impatience, frustration…I did not know, but the next moment, I was up in her arms as she carried me up to her bedroom.
I did not utter a word and nor did she. She took her first aid kit and helped to mend my wounds, bandaging up the slashed skins which spilled globules of blood.
"Stay here today. It's not a good idea to leave in this situation." She ordered. I complied. "Why do you stink so much?"
"I didn't shower for days." I replied genuinely.
"Why?" She asked, inching away from me.
"There is no shower stall in the basement. I can only use the bathroom in the living room. Mama yells at me if I take too long."
"Then, take showers in my shower stall from now on. Here, take it." She took my hand gently, placing a key in my palm before enclosing my hand into a fist. Santana looked at me one last time before standing up. She headed towards the door.
"Thank you," I stated softly. She stopped in her gait to shoot me a repellent glare. I swallowed from fear, twisting the bed sheets in my hands.
"Don't expect anything good from me, especially towards an outsider like you."