Memories

Has anyone ever told you that you shouldn’t have ever been born? Maybe they said it subtlety, like “Oh, you were an accident.” Or maybe “We didn’t expect you!” Most people never even know they weren’t supposed to be born. My story in particular is rather sad. I, along with my twin sister was supposed to be aborted. She died, but somehow I survived. The doctors tried to kill me too, but they couldn’t, no matter how hard they tried. I was born, and then placed in foster care. Later that year, I was adopted by a nice family of two photographers. They became my parents. They never told me I was adopted. I found out after they were gone. I was a happy baby, I can tell by the pictures in the giant photo album they left behind. I was always smiling and waving at the camera. However, the pictures from around the time I was four take a darker turn. I see myself sitting in the corner, away from all of the other children at pre-school. I am seen sitting in a circle of dismembered dolls in another. In yet another, it shows my fifth birthday party, and I am sitting at a table, set for twenty, all by myself in front of a big cake. I assume nobody came. The next page aren’t pictures, they are doctor’s notes. They all say about the same thing. I don’t know why they kept these. They were always hoarders I guess. The next pages were filled with prescriptions for different anti-psychotic drugs. I remember being six, and having to take 16 different brightly colored pills. It was humiliating. The next page is dated at my eighth birthday. Instead of a party, however, it was a picture of a car. We were standing in front of your old car, with the ocean in the background. We all looked sad. I saw suitcases in the background. A little, pink suitcase, with a bunny on it. After seeing this, I flashed back to that gloomy March day 7 years ago. I remember thinking my life was over, that my mommy and daddy hated me. I remember being so angry and sad. So, when mommy went back to get the rest of my things from upstairs, I followed. Then as she went to carry the last of my things down the stairs, I pushed her. She screamed as she fell. I hear a sickening snap, and I bounded down the stairs, screaming that mommy had an accident. My father comes rushing in, only to run right into the kitchen knife I was holding. He gasps, looking down at my small face, shocked. He falls, and, grabbing him by the hair, I drag him out the sliding glass door, and push his head into the salty sea. He struggles, but, even at eight, I was able to finish him off. After that, I ran to Grandma’s house, suitcase in tow. The police never even expected me. They though I random killer had done it. They found some guy and blamed it on him. About two years later, my Grandmother tried to send me away too. She always hated me, thinking I was evil. So, when I was about to be sent away again, I took care of it. Pushing people down the stairs is so easy. It is so easy to call it an accident. I snapped back into reality, and I found the courage to turn the last page, though I already know what is on it. Pictures, though of a lower quality than the ones before, of my mom, dad, and Grandmother. All of them were dead. Then, the last photo on the page was of a little girl, holding a spider knife. She had purple eyes, and long, black hair. She was standing alone, staring at the camera, smiling with her knife sharp teeth. I closed the book, and read the cover for the last time. “Little Raven’s Life” After seeing it, I tossed it into the fire, along with more gasoline. As I watch my childhood home burn away, I realize that the sun was coming up. Time for bed. Raven can clean up after me, again. It is the least she can do after I saved her those 16 years ago. Sacrificing myself to save her, protecting her, you would think she would be grateful. But she hates me to. They all do.