Hope had become such a dead word to me. Used to failure and doubts that always seemed to cloud my mind, regardless of what people said or did for me. What more could you expect from a self confessed outcast?
I sat in the hospital room, looking at the gloomy sky. I wondered what life really meant; what was my purpose? I stared at my fingers, which had been bitten so far back that there was barely anything left to chew. I closed my eyes and thought, “It’s time to go back.”
Born and raised in so many countries, it had become inevitable for me to really find somewhere where I truly fit in. friends was a word that was simply not in my vocabulary. But what I’m about to finally confess is my story from when I had my home taken away from me.
You see, I was dumped on the side of a road at about two years old. All I know of my quick upbringing was that my mother was a drug addict living on the cold, cruel streets of New York begging for money – not to feed me, but her incessant drug addiction on heroin, cocaine, anything. My earliest memory of her would be her strangling me on the side of a road screaming, “Why were you born?” You’re nothing but a piece of trash in my life.”
Naturally, as a two year old, I hadn’t understood the implication of my actions upon my mother. I used to think that rushing out of people’s garages or gardens quickly every morning was because we would go on an adventure. An adventure that would always venture out to meeting different people and easting an endless supply of ice cream.
But it’s funny how deluded you become when things don’t go your way, isn’t it? Long story short, my “mother” simply had enough of me when I was about five, and simply said “wait here, darling” right in front of the Grand Central Terminal in the middle of a snow storm.
She never came back.
I remember crying for a while, calling out “Mum, where are you” and “Mummy, I’m cold”. I had to mature quickly from that point onwards. I realised that maybe Mummy might have gotten lost so I went inside the Grand Central Terminal and sat down near a small flower stall that had flowers the colour of the setting sun. but even my fascination with these beautiful flowers couldn’t make up for the sense of disorientation I felt.
All I could hear were muffled voices that made no sense and people walking so fast that they hadn’t even taken any shape. I was hungry, I was cold and I was lost.
No one was there to help a young girl, in the