The Broken Girl

Withdrawls. Man, I hate them already, even as I lay here as an infant, struggling to breathe, struggling to beat the odds the doctors just told my worthless mother. And yet my infant mind still craves my mother's love, craves it about as much as the drugs flowing through her system. I want to be able to tell you my life has gotten better, but sadly, this isn't that kind of story. I'm broken and I'm fated to remain broken until the day I die. I didn't ask to be born. I also didn't ask to be born on drugs, but for some reason they always like to say it is. Who's they, you ask? I'll get to that in just a second. I grew up in a rundown home consisting of my older sister, my dad, who was my mom's pimp/drug dealer. If you ask my mother, she never did anything wrong, it is always something or someone else's fault. For example, her constant one is: I wouldn't have done drugs if your father hadn't supplied me with them in the first place.Yeah real believable, right? At 2, I was able to change my own diaper as my sister, 4 at the time, refused to do so. Certainly, no adults were either. I was on my own. I got used to avoiding every human being in my life. I was the weird one, the unexpected one, the one that was supposed to die, so why would anyone remember I existed? I guess my mother got tired of children taking away her big clients, so she enrolled us in our cousin's daycare. At first I was happy there. After all, I never had any toys or interaction with other kids. My mother would often have my sister and I get out of the car, never making sure we were clear of the car before speeding off to get her next fix and go screw her next client. She often left us there, forgetting to pick us up until our cousin called. One day, my cousin got tired of calling and decided with her husband that they would keep us. I was excited. After all, I would always get food, always have toys, always have love, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. And here is where our story begins.