Unfortunate for Me

Tammy Tran

When I was born my mother died. Isn't that typical. A mother dieing after giving birth. The child grows up not knowing their mother and wishing they could experience the love and care of one. Now me I personally don't care.

When I was one my father died. Drunk perhaps. Was reckless. When a child doesn't get to experience the love and care from both a mother and a father they start comparing their lives with other fortunate children and wishing they had a mommy and daddy. Do I care no. I have no memories so far.

When I was two I was put in an orphanage. I was raised by my grandma for a few months, but she died from old age. I don't have memories from the orphanage so I don't really care what happened in there.

When I was three I was adopted by an unfriendly couple. Now isn't that fortunate for me. Of course I didn't care at least not yet. As long as I had a roof over my head. As long as I was fed. As long as I could sleep at night. As long as I had a bed. As long as I had something. Of course it was pretty hard to ignore the beatings and the bruises. The hard luppy old bed. The nagging from my foster mother and my foster father being drunk and yelling. The food was stale and nights were cold. Do I care? I don't really know.....

When I was four I had a black eye, a broken arm, and a busted nose. I was obtaining memories now. This kind of treatment from my foster parents was becoming unbearingly annoying. Getting beaten by a belt by cooking utensils by rulers. Last night after dinner my foster mother threw a plate at my head and it shatter when it the floor. My head hurts. My foster dad came home drunk as always and they had fight. I was in my room in the attic and I heard the usual heavy footsteps. He opened my door and grabbed me by the neck. This time he pushed me down the stairs. That was unexpected. He picked me up and threw me out the front door. He locked the door and I slept outside that night.

When I was five I had enough. My foster father was gone as usual. Probably already drunk. My foster mother washing the dishes. She broke another dish and threw it at me when I was in the living room reading. I shut the book in frustration. I grabbed a broken piece of the dish. Long and sharp. My blood dripped down as I clutched the piece hard in my hand. I'm used to the pain. I walked over to my foster mother. I stabbed her. Screaming in pain she turned to look at me in disgust. Before she could do anything else I kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. Then daddy came home. He saw the blood and stared in horror. I hated him the most. He gave me many bruises. He pushed me down the stairs. He kept me outside like a dog. He blamed me for his pain. Now I'll express me pain to him. My love. With my blade I stabbed him. I shouted all the things he had done. Stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing. I whispered to him. I love you daddy. I'm only five. Will I remember this. Most likely not. I burned the house down with me in it. I have nothing now. And when I live I always want something and with nothing I'll become nothing.

When I turned to nothing I left a thought. Just a few. I lied to you all. My daddy died but didn't also. His loving self died. He gave himself away to drugs. Mommy died but I got another mommy. I'll never love her. And the truth is I never existed.


Hope you enjoyed this weird confusing story if you don't get anything just write a comment telling me what you didn't get and I'll answer somehow