"That Maclay girl is quite the handful. She acts tough, but I can tell
she's a softy. She's always cussing and spitting, smoking up a storm. She
insists on breaking every rule she can get her hands on."
I raised my eyes from my plate that night at dinner. Mum was talking about Tara, who had arrived at the institute the day prior.
"If she straightens up a bit and drops the 'I don't give a shit' act, she'll be free to go to a sponsor soon. She doesn't have any living family members and we don't have enough space to keep her at the institute. Hopefully she'll figure out we're not the bad guys. Maybe then she'll let us help her. I heard she went through some pretty traumatic stuff as a child. Her brother and her father were killed and her mother died of a sickness when she was very young. I'm worried about her. I must say she's growing on me."
So, Tara was one of those 'tough chicks'. Why did I find that so hard to believe?
I mean, I'd never spoken to her, but she seemed nice enough. We had spent some time in the same room, and I had helped escort her out to the police car.
Sure, I had walked a few yards behind the officers, still afraid of what Tara was capable of. I mean, she was still a pistol packing psychotic teen, but I felt that odd yearning to be closer to her.
Despite her issues and the fact that we had never spoken I still didn't think she seemed like the kind of person who would be a bad ass, maybe more of a confused kid.
I knew she smoked, I had seen some of her x-rays and her lungs were pretty clogged up. Really nasty. She didn't seem like the kind of person that would be mean though.
She looked scared, to be honest. Every time I looked into her eyes all I saw was fear, like she was replaying some moment in time over and over. I wonder what could have her so tweaked. I don't know much about gangsters, but doesn't that lifestyle involve shooting out of cars and setting small children on fire?
If things like that happen on a daily bases what could irk her? Maybe her mum caught her masturbating once.
God, if my mum walked in on me I would be traumatized for life too.
All this thought of Mum tuned me back into her little minor-dramatic monologue. I think she expected us to be listening.
Apparently, the second she got to the institute Tara started acting like a badass. Picking on people and just being an over all jerk.
Mum said she spent most of her time outside, at the park, so she could smoke. I knew it was more then that. I knew that was just her excuse. Tara had a bond with the outdoors I could feel it. Just like I could feel my own bond with nature.
Tara just didn't want to admit her love for the sky and the grass, and the way the wind kicks up the dust.
I couldn't wait until Tara was 'safe' enough to go to a home, every day I prayed it would be ours.
Why?
I seemed to ask myself that question a lot.
After thinking and pondering, looking and searching, digging, for the answer all I could come up with was IT. Or, inner desire, I guess, talk about id to the max.
That damn panther.
Why did I always want to be near her? Panther.
Why did I beg for her to live with me? Panther.
Why did I give a damn about her? Panther.
I didn't know what this thing was, or what it was doing to me, but I didn't like it.
I raised my eyes from my plate that night at dinner. Mum was talking about Tara, who had arrived at the institute the day prior.
"If she straightens up a bit and drops the 'I don't give a shit' act, she'll be free to go to a sponsor soon. She doesn't have any living family members and we don't have enough space to keep her at the institute. Hopefully she'll figure out we're not the bad guys. Maybe then she'll let us help her. I heard she went through some pretty traumatic stuff as a child. Her brother and her father were killed and her mother died of a sickness when she was very young. I'm worried about her. I must say she's growing on me."
So, Tara was one of those 'tough chicks'. Why did I find that so hard to believe?
I mean, I'd never spoken to her, but she seemed nice enough. We had spent some time in the same room, and I had helped escort her out to the police car.
Sure, I had walked a few yards behind the officers, still afraid of what Tara was capable of. I mean, she was still a pistol packing psychotic teen, but I felt that odd yearning to be closer to her.
Despite her issues and the fact that we had never spoken I still didn't think she seemed like the kind of person who would be a bad ass, maybe more of a confused kid.
I knew she smoked, I had seen some of her x-rays and her lungs were pretty clogged up. Really nasty. She didn't seem like the kind of person that would be mean though.
She looked scared, to be honest. Every time I looked into her eyes all I saw was fear, like she was replaying some moment in time over and over. I wonder what could have her so tweaked. I don't know much about gangsters, but doesn't that lifestyle involve shooting out of cars and setting small children on fire?
If things like that happen on a daily bases what could irk her? Maybe her mum caught her masturbating once.
God, if my mum walked in on me I would be traumatized for life too.
All this thought of Mum tuned me back into her little minor-dramatic monologue. I think she expected us to be listening.
Apparently, the second she got to the institute Tara started acting like a badass. Picking on people and just being an over all jerk.
Mum said she spent most of her time outside, at the park, so she could smoke. I knew it was more then that. I knew that was just her excuse. Tara had a bond with the outdoors I could feel it. Just like I could feel my own bond with nature.
Tara just didn't want to admit her love for the sky and the grass, and the way the wind kicks up the dust.
I couldn't wait until Tara was 'safe' enough to go to a home, every day I prayed it would be ours.
Why?
I seemed to ask myself that question a lot.
After thinking and pondering, looking and searching, digging, for the answer all I could come up with was IT. Or, inner desire, I guess, talk about id to the max.
That damn panther.
Why did I always want to be near her? Panther.
Why did I beg for her to live with me? Panther.
Why did I give a damn about her? Panther.
I didn't know what this thing was, or what it was doing to me, but I didn't like it.