Staying Strong

*Warning!*

I’m only saying this once but it goes for the whole Generation: There is going to be harsh words and offensive language throughout!

Mature Audiences Only!

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I was too young when my dad died to really remember much. Rent told me that his life got too hard for him so he left the world in search of peace. As a child, it made perfect sense to me. Now I know that my father was weak and took his life when things got too hard to deal with.

I never hated my dad for leaving me when I was so little, but often wondered if I had anything to do with his choice to take his life. I once asked Rent, but he assured me that it was nothing I did. My father loved me and only wanted the best for me.

Before I plunge right into my adult life, I am going to go all the way back to when my dad died. I think you will understand me best if I tell you my whole story.

 

After my dad died, Rent took on the responsiblity of caring for me. He could have dropped me off at foster care and left me, but he loved me as his own and refused to let anyone care for me. Not even a babysitter was good enough, Rent stayed home with me my whole childhood.

I remember the night of my dad’s funeral. Though I was much too little to remember any major details of it, I do remember Rent holding me, crying before my father’s tombstone whispering, “Why?” over and over again.

I knew Rent was heartbroken over the death of my dad, but he pushed all of his emotions aside and gave me the best life he could. He taught me how to walk.

He would sit with me and talk to me or read me stories, he never treated me like I was any less intelligent than he was. My vocabulary grew rapidly. I remember one day when I called him, “daddy”, he got a look of shock on his face. He corrected me, telling me to call him “Rent”. After that, I always called him, “Daddy Rent.” I’m sure it made him uncomfortable; but to me, he was my daddy.

Rent liked to play the drums, he bought me a xylophone so I could play music with him. I would sing and bang away at the fake instrument; Rent always listened with a smile on his face.

When my fifth birthday came around, he had a little party for me. It was only him and I, but it was fun anyways. He held me up so I could blow out my candles and make a wish. I wished for a flying pony.

As I got older and started school, I quickly became a social outcast. I don’t know why, I was always really nice to everyone. The other kids would point and laugh at me, calling me a freak and tell me that I was unwanted. I was lucky in one aspect, my older cousin, Zackary, was there for me. We hung out at his house after school all the time.

I had two sisters that I was never allowed to see outside of school. One was named Catherine.

And the other sister was named Kia.

Rent told me never to talk to them or their mother. He said they were all evil and would only cause us problems that we didn’t need.

One night, when I was riding my bike home from playing at Zackary’s house, a group of older kids started throwing rocks and sticks at me. I tried to ignore them.

They started chasing me, so I peddled my bike faster. These kids were on the football team, so they were really fast and they caught up to me. They pulled me off my bike and started shoving me around. Rent had always told me to stick up for myself so I did.

I made a face at them, mockingly I said, “Ooo, look at me, I’m a big mean bully picking on a kid five years younger than me. I’m so cool.”

I guess that was the wrong thing to do, before I knew what happened, I had been slugged in the face by the biggest kid. I fell to the ground, but I didn’t cry. One of the other kids kicked me in my legs, then they ran off with my bike.

My whole body ached, but I got up and dusted myself off. I walked the rest of the way home, which was only another block. I went straight to bed without saying anything to Rent, who was in the music room playing his drums.

The next morning, Rent and I were eating breakfast together as usual when he asked me what happened to my eye. I swallowed my bite of pancake and told him about the mean kids from the night before. I told him they beat me up and stole my bike.

Rent got really mad and called up the school. They told him that it wasn’t their concern since it wasn’t on school grounds and there was no way to know who had done it.

I didn’t have any way to get to school that day, so I had to take the bus. I sat alone in the front seat.

The bullies were on the bus too, when they saw me get on, they moved to the seat behind me and started throwing bits of paper and pencil eraser at me. I tried to ignore them, not wanting to provoke another beating. They starting shoving my head forward, calling me names. They said I was an unwanted orphan and a fag. I didn’t know what a fag was at the time, but I knew it was something bad.  Gratefully, the bus driver told the kids to get back to their own seats and I made it to school in one piece.

On the ten-year anniversary of my dad’s passing, I snuck out of my room in the middle of the night and went out to the family graveyard. I stood before his tombstone, fingering the lettering engraved on it. His grave marker had a stone guitar on it, and the guitar had the name, “Crow” carved into its base.

I can still picture that night perfectly. The sky was clear and you could see thousands of stars shining brightly, lighting the black of the night. As I stood there wondering what my dad was like, I felt a presence behind me. Immediately after I had that sensation, I felt what seemed to be a burning hand placed on my shoulder. I jumped back, wincing in pain. The whole eerie-ness dispersed and I was left questioning whether or not it had really happened.

The next morning as I was washing up for school, I noticed a red hand print on my shoulder. It looked like a sunburn, and stung when I touched it. I was honestly freaked out, but I didn’t want to worry Rent, so I kept it a secret.

 Chapter Two: It Gets Better