I remember being in a small apartment room, alone, sitting in the stinking pile of garbage and old clothes Mother left behind.
…My earliest memory.
I remember sitting in the corner, crying my eyes out. Whether by loneliness or hunger, I do not recall. Mother was a prostitute, working in the dark alley ways of London. She never came home, and when she did, she was always with a man, or too drunk to care. Because of her I was always starved, deprived of proper education, and a healthy, hygienic environment. Those first few years in my life in that tiny, dark room, soon became the cause of several physical, as well as mental disorders, but I'm happy I was even able to survive.
Escape may have crossed my mind once or twice in the past, but I loved Mother too much to leave. I felt that waiting for her in that tiny room was my duty, and that she would one day thank me for it, accepting and loving me for what I was.
You see, Mother hated me.
Born as a pure albino I had several complications, in this case, my physical appearance.
My white hair and red eyes intimidated her, causing her hatred for me to grow immensely. She screamed I was the devils spawn, and regularly beat me.
But it was true. I was the child she never wanted, and never needed. Worse than any Sexually transmitted disease, a reminder of her last relationship, and her single, fatal mistake…
A gift, not from god, but from the devil himself.
…My world was within that small apartment room, and in the end, I was never able to get out of there alone.
All the nightmares I've had, the throbbing pain in my head as I remember this, must have not been anything compared to the fear and loneliness I've felt in that period of my life.
It was as if I was buried alive in a mound of ashes, with only air for my survival. I was worse than dead; loneliness and hunger tearing at my stomach and draining my will to live. I was sick, and I waited in fear and pain for what was coming next.
But I was alive.
And I had hope. The only reason I was able to survive.
She was a kind elderly woman from next door, and though I didn't know her personally, it seemed as if she was there to save me.
I first met her when I was lying on the ground unconscious, by the door, down with a heavy fever. Mother had visited recently, but only for one hour, to drink and rant about things I didn't understand. I saw her there, but I felt too weak to interact with her. As she left, I weakly followed her to the door and collapsed. It seemed she left the door open that time, because somebody noticed me and took the time to care for my sickness.
When I woke up, I was in a small unfamiliar room, much like my own. I was lying on something soft, with something cold on my head and a sort of comforting cloth over me. Weakly I turned right, and I saw an old woman, sleeping in a chair right beside the bed.
This was my first encounter with another human, other than Mother and the men she brought along with her.
Suppressing a scream, I instinctively hid in the corner of the bed, folding into a ball underneath the soft blanket. Shaking with fear, I stayed still, hoping she wouldn't notice me.
But things never go as planned.
The old woman opened her eyes, awoken by slight gasping sounds she heard from the bed. After some yawning and stretching, she finally noticed me, cowering in the corner.
Smiling kindly, she patted the bed, indicating that it was safe to stay. Still tense, I stayed in my spot, glaring at her from under the blanket.
Sighing, the old lady stood up and moved to another part of the room, far from where the bed stood. She began to take out metal utensils and some vegetables, cutting them and mixing them, then proceeding to create an irresistible smell from that corner of the room. I lifted up the blankets to watch her, curious of what her actions meant.
After some minutes of her boiling and tasting the mysterious liquid, she put them into two bowls, one for herself, and one she left on the small end table by the side of the bed. For some minutes I stayed put, watching her as she drank the soup from a seat far away. After about twenty minutes, my stomach hurt from the hunger and I couldn't take looking at the woman for too long. Slowly I reached out for the bowl, and put it to my mouth, drinking it down messily.
It was a little cold, but my, oh my, it was the best thing I had ever tasted in my life.
After three years of searching for food in the garbage, and eating the random canned baby food Mother bought when she was drunk and feeling generous, it was my first time to actually eat real food, and though I couldn't eat all because of my anorexic conditions, I ate till I was satisfied, and that was a first for me.
I stayed with her for 3 weeks.
Possibly the healthiest time in my life, I recovered from my fever, and I learnt to trust her, though I still slightly feared her. She was kind to me, and though she sometimes left the house for work, she always left something for me to eat in a place I could reach. I never got to know much about her, other than the fact that she had a son, whom she kept a picture of, and that she couldn't speak English. Sometimes she would sing me a lullaby, or attempt to talk to me, but I never fully understood what she was saying. I didn't mind though, I wasn't very good at my own language either, and though we didn't understand each other well, I didn't feel as lonely as before.
I felt like I was at the end of purgatory, on my way to heaven.
…Well, I wasn't.
It was a normal day.
I was stacking plastic cups on the floor, waiting for the old woman's return. It was dark outside, and it was about this time the old woman would come back from work and play with me for a while, before cooking something and putting me to sleep. The walls were thin in that cheap apartment, and usually I would hear her quite footsteps coming closer to the room, as she opens the door and set her bags down. That day, it was different. Right outside of the door, I heard two voices, one loud high voice, screaming at the other, and another weaker, quieter one, possibly begging the other to tone down. Frightened by the loud noises, I quietly went in the closet and hid there, waiting for the voices to stop.
And then I heard a crash.
A dull sound followed, as if something heavy had fallen to the ground on the other side. Some seconds later, I heard the sound of somebody open the door and drag something inside the room, panting loudly.
Slowly, I moved my face toward a crack in the closet, peeking at what was happening in the room.
I saw Mother.
By her feet, the body of the kind old woman.
Suppressing my vomit, I continued to watch as Mother stuffed her in the space underneath the bed, praying that she wouldn't notice me.
Fear and disgust was racing through my brain as I faced away from the horrid scene, tears streaming down my eyes. The metallic smell of blood wafted through the room as I held my mouth shut, sick to my stomach, realization finally hitting me with its full force.
She was dead.
She had become what I feared for all my life.
Nothing but an object, lifeless and cold.
And it was because of Mother.
I couldn't suppress my feelings any longer.
I gasped weakly, still tasting the vomit in my mouth. Tears fell uncontrollably as I began to wail.
"Nate!"
Mother shouted as she opened the closet, my worst fear coming true.
On the floor was a trail of blood, leading from the main entrance to the body underneath the bed.
…No…
Shattered glass of the broken bottle lay quietly by the door, coloured red by a spatter of blood, also covering the door.
No!
I smelt the whiskey in her breath and clothes as she pulled my hand, dragging me out of my hiding place by force.
She was bringing me back to hell.
NO!
I screamed at the top of my lungs.
The days of hope, the days of joy, were gone.
And I had only two things on my mind.
Fear for myself, and one, strong wish.
A wish for Mother, to die.