alright because apparently I felt like writing, here is chapter three. Enjoy.
Chapter Three - Crystal
What happens after your favorite parent, who happens to be the one you've chosen to live with and the one that‘s always been there for you, dies and you have to go live with the one that abandoned you and your younger brother? Well defiance and attitude are two big things. They also happen to be the main reasons why my brother and I were sent to the 'wonderful' place called Life House. Don't let the brochures or anything fool you though.
Those that are here are here because their parents or step-parents didn't want to deal with them versus there actually being something wrong with the tenants. But that will be touched upon more I'm sure at a later point.
A bit of my back story I'm sure would be a good thing to start with. My mom left for the first time when I was about 12 maybe. I'm not actually all that sure about the specific details but I know the main things. Like the first leave of absence was only for a few days. The second time she left was for longer. She claims it's because my dad locked her out of the house but if she had bothered to call to let him know that she was going to be getting home later than usual, I'm sure it would have been different. Or maybe that was for the third, and final, time she left us. I'm not sure. One of the times though, I remember my brother Ricky and I had come home from school to find a note on the computer or computer desk saying that she was gone. It was confirmed when we looked in our parents' room and some of her things were missing.
One thing I know for sure is that by the second time she came back, I didn't want her around. I was sick of the fighting and yelling between the two of them. Didn't help that I would get yelled at when I turned my music up to drown them, and my brother's crying, out. I was also getting sick of having to comfort my brother all the time. The only downside to her leaving was how miserable the two of them were. It was hardest seeing my dad heartbroken. By the time my parents actually got divorced, I was ready for it. I was actually hoping for it just so the wondering when or if she would come back or leave again would end.
Through the beginning of my teenage years, I developed a bit of a hard shell, or at least thought I did. When 8th grade rolled around, if any of the boys on our bus said crap about me and I found out or they said it to me, I usually ended up smacking them upside the head or kicking them in the shin. The high school started. I was in a new place where I only knew a couple of people and didn't exactly have the easiest time making friends because of how quiet I can be. Course then I ended up getting sick. Which for the most part, doctors kept claiming was all in my head. That didn't exactly go over well with me but that's something else entirely.
It was October when the accident happened. My dad had been on his way home after a long day at work when it happened. The police believe that the driver of the other vehicle had been intoxicated at the time. Although the tree that my dad hit had been the deciding factor. If he had missed it, he would have lived. However, luck didn’t appear to be on his side.
If I had had a choice I would have gone and lived with my older half sister. Sadly they didn’t have enough room for both my brother and I so we had to live with our ‘mother’. I say mother like that because she once told us that it felt like she wasn’t our mother. It’s odd the things you will remember from random conversations.
Now I wouldn’t exactly call the transition a smooth one. It was definitely rocky. Arguments happening at any moment and set off by any little thing. My brother sneaking out of the house early in the morning to go visit a girl who wasn’t, and never was, any good for him. Me wishing that people would stop saying how much I looked like my mother whenever it occurred. I don’t see it personally. Granted we both have thick, brown hair (although hers has been thinning out because of hair loss), glasses, and are about the same height but that’s where the similarities end to me. Her eyes are green while mine, well mine don’t fall into a category. That’s because my right eye is 2/3 brown and 1/3 this bluish green that looks more green some days and then blue the next, while my left eye is all that bluish green color.
As time went on, it never got any better. If anything actually it just got worse. Yelling, slam doors, dog barking (because of the yelling), music cranked up, and more yelling was a normal occurrence. Somehow my mom found out about Life House and decided that that was exactly what we needed. A place to go where there were trained professionals that could, and supposedly would, help us with getting over our father’s death.
I figured that my brother and I would stick together while we were there. However almost as soon as we got there, my brother was off socializing. As much as I would have liked to do the same, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was always shy and quiet in those types of situations. That’s why I stayed by myself when we first arrived. That didn’t last all that long though.
I didn’t know it then, but the two girls that came up to me on my first day there would become my sisters, my lifelines, in this place. Ashley is loud and kind of dorky but amazing none the less. I almost didn’t believe that she was a ‘snit’ as she says, but I have seen the rare moment where her ‘old’ attitude slips back. Stephani is crazy and a little out there but she’s fun to be around. The two of them can always manage to make me smile and laugh even when I’m having a bad day. Granted most days I have to keep the both of them from killing each other but it’s still great to have them there for me.
Now with it being only a little over a year since my brother and I arrived at this place, I thought I had gotten used to it. I have definitely gotten used to the therapists here trying to help me get over my supposed ‘trust’ issues that I developed after my mothers abandonment(s). I’ve also gotten used to them constantly telling me that I’m going to have to tell my mother all the things I’ve kept from her when I finally leave here. Another thing I’ve gotten used to is them trying to say things that are on my mind. Granted when I tend to say the things that cross my mind during the ‘sessions’, well let’s just say that the therapists’ aren’t exactly happy with me. But it’s their own fault, right? They aren’t really helping any of us that are here. More like they are either a) keeping us prisoner, b) providing shelter and food for us which is good because otherwise most of us would probably be living on the streets, or c) convincing us that the only ‘issues’ we have are the people that run this place.
