The phone in our small little yellow country-style kitchen rang, startling my mother. She dropped a soapy glass in the sink. The things I remembered of my mother were of three things; She was always parinoid, cried often and alot, and loved my father alot because he brought money into our small, run down house, not for the true love that had a burrning passion and disire. I ate my oatmeal, it was soupy and watery in texture and tasted band and horrible- mostly because it was the only thing we could afford from the Food Pantry- and watched my mother's eyes calm, and hands stop shaking.

She picked up the phoen on the third ring. She gulped and cleared her throat and stalled as much as she could. "Yes, Officer. This is she. And no, I do NOT have a drug problem." She said, lying in a hoarse voice that dripped in sadness with a fake tone of security.. This was a bad sign. I had already heard my mother complaining about how she knew it was a bad idea to be on drugs, but 'couldn't stop' and I was only seven.

Shortly after saying that, she fell to pieces on the ground, trying and moaning and gasping for air. She screamed and kicked and banged on everything possible, dropping the phone to hit the green tiled floor. She had this utter look of dispair, loooking at me for the finnal time. I remember hearing the door come down. Officers and squat memebers came in as my mother grbbed a butter knife from the clean drying rack near the sink. Tears filled my eyes to the brim as she stabbed the knife trhough her heart. "MOTHER!" was the only thing I could remember screaming before the officers grabbed me in an embrace, taking me away.

They tried to restrain her, but kept stabbing, saying, "You'll never take me alive!" with an insane laughter. Then, the door slammed as they threw me into the cop car. I banged on the windows as they ran back in to help them restrain her. I cried and kicked and screamed, finnaly breaking through the glass of the window with a gun under the seat. That was my first (and not last time) ever using a gun.

I remeber then just jumping out the window and running to the kitchen window, avoiding the wide-open front door. My hands and face looked into the kitchen like Tiny Tim on Christmas as I watched my bloody, insane mother fall to the floor. That was the last time I ever saw her.

The feeling of abandonment surged through me, adn I felt empty, as if the life had been drained out of me. Another man put me in the car. I then decided that i can not cry, because my mom would always yell when I did. She said crying is for babies, even though she cried all the time (she denied it. I then decided to never tell anyone what happend. I was adopted to two nice people. We barely talked, we weren't close, Dad was always off on business trips and Mom was caring for my little siblings. It was nice, just to be left alone. It was a hallow, dead feeling, that was much better than the depression I felt. A year ago they started putting me on anti-depressants, though it hardly worked.When ever soemone would come up to me and say, "are those your real parents? Thay look NOTHING like you." I decided to bite my lip and say, "Yeah. My great-grandma had brown hair, and that's where I get it. That's my birth mother, though I eblive I'm adopted." when asked about my parents. I lied right through my teeth, the person who asked belived it, changing the subject immediately.

I now walk through the hallways of High school. My Long brown hair loosely put into a bun flopped loosely in my face. I bit my bottom lip and faked a smile so good that everyone even smiled back with a genuine smile. A smile that I haven't ever experianced.

My colorful outfit (blue skinny jeans, zebra T-ahirt, converse high tops, and stipped sweatshirt) made me blend in. The make-up on my face covered the fact that I was suffering depression inside. I looked liek everyone else and was accepted. I laughed to myelf as I reached my locker. No one knew of my past, and I'd like to keep it that way.