when I born

The world outside my window is painted in shades of tired green and hazy blue, the low mountains of East Tennessee a familiar, suffocating backdrop. Inside, the house throbs. It’s a constant hum I’ve known since before I could string words together, a symphony of chaos that’s as much a part of me as the beat of my own heart. I’m fourteen, but my memories stretch back further, to a time before age had meaning, only sensation. My earliest recollections aren’t soft lullabies or gentle touches. They’re the guttural roars of my parents, voices shredded by anger and something else I couldn’t name then, but recognize now as a raw, desperate hunger. The house is always full, a revolving door of faces blurred by cigarette smoke and the dizzying haze of too much noise. Loud music—country, rock, rap, it doesn't matter, just loud—vibrates through the floorboards, a relentless pulse that matches the frantic energy of the grown-ups who drift in and out. And then there are the bags. Small, plastic baggies, sometimes clear, sometimes Ziploc-branded, filled with a fine, white powder. They’d appear on coffee tables, tucked into ashtrays, or scattered carelessly on sticky countertops. I learned early not to touch them, not to even look too closely. Even as a small child, clutching a worn-out teddy bear in the corner of a booze-soaked room, I knew I was different. It wasn't just the quiet way I moved or the fact I preferred the company of dusty books to the raucous laughter that echoed through the ramshackle house. It was deeper, a fundamental difference, like day and night. Where they were loud, I was quiet. Where they reveled in the haze, I craved clarity. They lived for the moment, a frantic chase for the next high, while I dreamed of a future I couldn’t yet define, only that it would be different. That dream is my constant companion: running away. Not just from this house, or this town, but from the crushing weight of their world. I picture myself on a bus, or even just walking, the small, winding roads of East Tennessee disappearing behind me. I’d be free. I’d be happy. The idea is a fragile, precious thing I guard fiercely, a tiny flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness of my everyday life. It’s the only thing that keeps me going, the silent promise that one day, I wouldn’t just be Kaci Keys, born into this mess; I’d be Kaci Keys, born anew. The idea is a fragile, precious thing I guard fiercely, a tiny flicker of light in the overwhelming darkness of my everyday life. Thud. My head jerked forward, the dream evaporating like mist. My mom’s hand, calloused and quick, had made contact with the back of my skull. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, not really, but it definitely wasn't gentle. "Hey, kid, did you not hear me?" Her voice was raspy, laced with irritation. "Get up and go make me food. It isn't going to make itself." Demands like this weren't unusual; they were my all-day, every-day reality. It was like I was only born to be their maid. "Yes mam" I say quickly gathering myself knowing better to even breathe the wrong way. I didn't even have to ask what she wanted me to make anymore because it was always the same, Deep fried chicken legs, homemade fries, and a big glass of her favorite vodka on the side. I hated this, but I knew one day It would all be over. I just hope that day comes sooner then later.