Scent of Desperation Pages 3-5

I walk through the halls once again as the day drones on, at least it's safer here. Predictable is the word... I always feared facing my mother after school everyday. She was the pitch black, evil, darkness in my already dark world.

I can't be myself here though, or anywhere for that matter. I don't even know who I am. On the outside my mother and I seem inseparable. The perfect mother and daughter relationship anyone would want to have... especially me.

In a closed door, my mother wasn't what she appeared to be. She fed me, yes. She put a roof above my head, yes. Although, she didn't provide me of new clothing, everyone believed her. She beat me...



Yes.

No one knew though. Because people are bleak. They are inconsiderate, robotic. Two- faced. And a lot more.

How could they know, though? It was up to me to keep the good, false image of a hardworking-mother-and-daughter-relationship alive. My mother is hardworking. She loves me...I know she does. Although...not like a daughter. She love me like children loves popscicles on hot summer days. I hate popscicles. It's winter year round in my world...as long as the door stays locked.

I heard the faint sound of shuffling feet and a ringing bell. Time to go home...

Hearing the buses roar to life as I made my way down the buses depressed me. This was the darkest part of the day. Knowing what I was going home to, knowing what I was going to face.

I shoved myself into the back. That way, no one would stare at me, no one would judge. As I seat myself, I gently open the newest book on my reading list: Pendragon: The Merchant of Death, scanning through the worn, neglected pages. Reading is my best friend, it helps me escape from my black hole into a sunny, cloudless, blue. Boy, did I love it there. I only wish I could stay.

Scent of Desperation Pages 1-2

I walk through the halls, staring straight into the eyes averting my chilled over gaze. No one is my friend here, everyone is an enemy, easy prey. I've only had one friend before. My dad. My life was once a four-year-old fantasy...

I wanted to be a model when I was little. My daddy made that dream come true. The memory gave me the most pride and hope a four-year-old could ask for. Daddy told me to put on my Easter dress, my best one. It was blue, a white lace fringe at the bottom and a white collar to match. Ducks covered the blue dress. Different colors, sizes and shapes...all ducks.

Momma held me close that day, when we were a family. She had small elegant fingers that braided my hair, intertwining them into the dark brown jungle to form something completely wonderous.

We took pictures then, silly, funny, sweet, quirky, anything you could think of. That day was a day full of happiness, hopefulness, but that day is but a memory. Gone like a seashell washing from the shore into the blackness of the waves... hope is but a memory.

Back in reality, I continue my walk to class. Slowly I unpack what I could scavenge from previous school years. Even a few pieces of paper in a journal were a lot to find this year. Suddenly, the teacher and I both sweep our eyes to the surface, locking them together. What did she want to say?

"Miranda, where are your supplies from the supply list? Not to be rude but your papers are gone, your pencils are almost to small to manage any more use and your binders aren't even the correct size."

I can only manage a squeaky, "Mom couldn't get them." then force my jell-oey legs to a desk in the back.

I could melt at any moment. I could turn into slush, just like melted snow. I won't. Hiding my mother's awful secret is vital. All I have to hide it with is my clothes, and my own little twisted innocent poker face. Although, the question is....why do I try?