Love Life and Happiness.
The three things that we need to live right, I guess?
Here’s a small story about someone who’s struggling with all three.
My name is Aldine Walker.
I’ve been on my own ever since I was nine. It’s okay, though, cause I was a strong child. At least that’s what I like to think.
The story of me is pretty sad and I don’t tell it too often because I feel like all I’m asking for is a pity fest. I don’t like pity fests. They’re overrated and we’re just created to make lucky people feel better about themselves.
Let me tell you my story. No judgements, no jokes, no sadness, no tears. No pity.
I was born in New Jersey. My mother’s name was Cheryl. She died during childbirth. Cliche, I know. The thing about it that isn’t cliche is that it wasn’t me who killed her. My father insisted that she shouldn’t go to a hospital for the birth. First bad idea. Now, during the pregnancy, my mom was a little cranky. That’s to be expected though, right? My father didn’t think so. He would get so annoyed at her and the unbirthed me that he would punch both of us. He almost made her miscarriage twice. I was born though. That was when he was worst to her. During the labor he claimed that she shouldn’t be complaining as much as she was. He ended up beating her to death while I was being born. Me staying alive was her last wish.
I intend to make that wish last as long as possible.
That’s not the end. My sister, Rosalie, died at age seven. She was born from my father’s other girlfriend. I was six when Rosalie died. She had committed suicide when she was seven years old. My father was that bad. Moving on, my brother Tony lasted till he was eight. He died two months after Rosalie. It was my birthday when it happened. I was turning seven and Tony wanted to wish me happy birthday. That was a big mistake. My father claimed I was the death child. He seemed to want to prove this because he killed Tony too. This time he used a gun. There were two shots, and I witnessed both.
After that, I was the only child left. Both of my father’s girlfriends were dead. Rosalie and Tony were dead. I wanted Sear, my father, to be dead too.
He wouldn’t die, though. Instead he kept me locked in my room until dinner. Then he let me make dinner for both of us at eight years old. I can’t tell you how many times I was either burned or bruised from dinner.
It was never as bad as after dinner though. Then I was stuck in the dark. Usually the room was dead cold. There wasn’t any furniture or blankets. Just a door with a lock. I must’ve smelled absolutely putrid.
A few months after I turned nine, my father ended up getting shot in the head by a gang.
I was finally free.
I was on the streets for about a year. Always on the move. Always scrounging for money. It was my life.
At age ten and a half, I found a friend, Lily, and she introduced me to her messed up family. It wasn’t nearly as messed up as my dead one, but I never mentioned my past. She had no father but she did have a mom. She had a little sister as well and she had to watch her every day after school.
Her family took me in. They gave me food and a home in return for watching Lily’s little sister so that Lily could go to school. I was finally happy for a bit.
That didn’t last very long. I was there until my eleventh birthday. I made the mistake of asking for a birthday cake. After a hit and a scold, I went back to watching the sister. I had felt too free. I thought Lily’s mother was forgiving.
She was not.
I borrowed two dollars to buy a candy bar from a gas station store. That was when I got kicked out.
I was back to when I was nine. On the streets just trying to stay alive. I’ll never forget the year I was eleven.
I tried to do the same thing I had before. Beg for money, move through different gangs, stay on the good side of persons. Ask for random jobs from shady persons. The usual.
That year I had to resort to stealing, though. I only stole from kids. The ones I knew I could take.
I never really hurt anyone else. I just asked for food or money very threatingly. After that, I’d get it and that would be that.
One guy I tried to steal from didn’t give me the money though. He said he trusted me not to hurt him. He said he had faith in me.
Nobody had ever said that before. I was only eleven but I believed I had already met my soulmate. We live on the streets, talked, stole, worked, ate and traded together. We were the, “mighty pair.”
That all ended when we decided to join one gang that didn’t like newcomers.
He was shot in the stomach when he tried to protect me from them. I tried to get the police or anyone who would listen to help. But that was the problem.
Nobody would listen.
That day I turned myself in to the police and ended up in foster care.
Boy, that didn’t go too well either.
-OnlyMe wishing a good day to all…