Ruthless for Ruth

My name is Ruth. That’s what everybody calls me. But I hate that name. I hate how it sounds like an old lady’s name, or something you’d find in a dusty Bible no one reads anymore. Out of all the names in the world, my parents picked Ruth. Like it was the best they could do. Maybe they didn’t even care what they named me. Sometimes I wonder if they ever really wanted me. My mom got pregnant with me when she was fifteen. No prom, no graduation, no future. Just a baby she didn’t plan for. Me. I heard stories about how she tried to get rid of me, how she cried when she found out she was pregnant, how her whole world crashed. But I didn’t go. I stayed. And now, I feel like she’s been punishing me for it ever since. She doesn’t talk to me. Not in a mean way, just… nothing. Like I’m air. She talks to neighbors, to the cashier at the gas station, and even laughs with people on the phone. But with me? Silence. Like I don’t exist. We live in the same apartment, sleep under the same roof, but we’re strangers. I think she hates me for the life she never got to live. My dad? Don’t even get me started. He’s a walking mess. A full-time gambler, part-time dad. He’s in and out of the house sometimes for days. When he’s home, he’s either drunk, angry, or broke. Mostly all three. He’s gambled away our rent money, food money, anything he could lay his hands on. Once he even took my tips from work. Just picked up my hoodie and emptied the pocket without asking. And when he loses, which is always, he blames the world. Slams doors. Breaks things. Yells like the universe owes him something. Then disappears again. So yeah. I had to grow up quickly. I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen. It wasn’t like I had a choice. Someone had to keep the lights on. Someone had to bring food into that tiny, roach-infested apartment. Someone had to do something. So I did. I got a job at this chain department store in a strip mall off the highway. It’s the kind of place where the floors are never quite clean, and the air conditioning only works when it wants to. But it’s a job. And right now, that’s all I’ve got. I wake up before the sun most days. Take the city bus through sketchy neighborhoods, holding my bag close so no one tries anything. The ride is quiet, except for the occasional guy muttering to himself or blasting music from a cracked speaker. I sit by the window and try not to think too much. The store opens at 8. I clock in, throw on my name tag Ruth, in faded black letters and get to work. Mostly stocking shelves, cleaning up messes, answering stupid questions like, “Where’s the milk?” when the customer is literally standing next to it. And I smile. Always smile. Even when I don’t feel like it. Even when my feet hurt and my back aches and my eyes are heavy. Some of the girls I work with are cool with each other. They talk about TikToks, weekend plans, makeup, hair. I just nod and keep moving. I don’t fit in. I know that. I’ve got acne scars on my face, big eyes that look like I haven’t slept in years, and I’m skinnier than I should be. People stare. Or worse, they look right through me. I eat lunch alone most days. Sit outside on the curb behind the building with a PB&J sandwich and warm water. I scroll through my phone, mostly just to look busy. No one’s texting me. I’ve pushed too many people away. Maybe because I got tired of being the charity case. The “oh no, her life is so sad” girl. Or maybe I’m just scared of being close to anyone. The apartment we live in is old. The hallway smells like old smoke and cheap cooking oil. Our unit is on the third floor, and the elevator’s been broken forever. Inside, it’s dark. The couch is ripped. The paint is peeling. And the fridge hums loud enough to drive anyone crazy. But it’s home. At least, that’s what I tell myself. When I get back from work, my mom’s usually on the couch watching TV. She doesn’t look at me. Don't ask how my day went. Sometimes I think about saying something. “Hi.” “Dinner’s ready.” “How was your day?” But the words die in my throat. I make ramen. It’s what we can afford. Maybe fry an egg if we have one. I leave a plate on the table for her, whether she eats or not. Then I go to my room if you can call it that. It’s more like a box with a mattress. The wallpaper is old, the window doesn’t open, and the fan rattles like it’s about to give up. Sometimes I cry. Not loud. Just quiet tears on the pillow. Because I’m tired. Tired of being invisible. Tired of pretending to be strong. Tired of hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone will see me. But every morning, I get up again. I wash my face. I brush my hair into a ponytail. I check the mirror and tell myself, “You can do this. Just one more day.” Because I don’t have a choice. This is my life. This is my reality. I don’t have dreams anymore. Not the big ones, like college or traveling or falling in love. I just want peace. A full fridge. A room with real light. Maybe a day where I don’t feel like I’m drowning. People always say things like “It gets better.” I don’t know if that’s true. But I want to believe it. Even just a little. Maybe tomorrow won’t hurt as much. Maybe one day I’ll wake up and not hate everything about myself. Maybe I’ll find something anything that makes life feel worth it. But for now, I'm going to bed. Alone. In the dark. And I try to survive the night.