It wasn’t a secret that my aunt hated me. Actually, I’m sure that after the countless number of nights she spent screaming at me, I’m sure everyone in our county knew. However, it also wasn’t a secret that I was an absolutely horrible child. It began the middle of fourth grade, right after Dad died.

I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever had only one parent, but I can safely say that my mom wouldn’t have made a good poster person for single parenting. Though on the outside we made it look like life was fine, we secretly had our struggles. Mine solely consisted of my schooling. Because of my father’s flexible schedule, he would sit with me to work on my homework. It was a sight to see within my small class of nine and ten-year-olds when I walked into school that day without my homework.

My equally as shocked teacher had to witness the way I withdrew from my peers. She began asking my questions. Was I okay? Was I on vacation the two weeks I was gone from school? That woman (I think her name was Mrs. Pomellini or something) cared a lot. But at that point, I didn't care at all. 

Then, it was almost like a switch went off. One day barely two weeks later, I came into school with a smile on my face and my homework done. I showed no signs of the traumatic event that had changed the course of my life. But still, countless times I was openly mocked by my classmates and questioned. Why didn’t I have a proper lunch? Why was I wearing the same ugly black t-shirt for the third time that week? Was I okay? 

The truth was simple: I packed my lunch from whatever I could scavenge. I wore my ugly t-shirt because my mom wasn’t home long enough to both pay the bills and buy me clothes. I wasn't okay because my dad had died and I felt dead inside.

However, I never said any of that.  I lied and laughed it all off and said I was fine.

I wasn't fine.

I never really felt your hurt as a child. I was sheltered from your dark vaccum by my parents' iron backs and strong sholders. Your red-hot, scorching needles barely touched me. However, I couldn’t avoid your harsh, soul-sucking invisible limbs forever. Slowly, surely, I fought my parents to be released to your torture. I needed to feel it.

You don’t care about my safety or my health. All you do is make me feel like I am dying.

The truth is, I could die from the inflicting horror you give me. I could end it all just to ease this feeling of misery.

I can’t sleep when you are here. I won’t eat if you are here. I should try to leave you.

But, we both know you hold the strings that physically and mentally bind me.

I never will be truly free until joy comes back around.

Sincerly,

A Forever Trapped Soul

In all of my favorite books, rain is the author's foreshadowing of the things to come. Rain is either a good thing or a bad thing. The couple either kisses and dances or the evil catches up with the hero. Yes, rain can be so very confusing and contradicting.

So what do I do when it's raining in real life? Freak out as I take refuge under the desolate 5th Avenue bus stop, apparently.

I hadn't meant to wander so far away from my home, but when my mom stopped the car, I yelled one last "I hate you!" before swinging open the door and running full steam down the street in the opposite direction from home.

And don't worry, before you begin, I am sixteen. You don't need to call anyone on me... My mom never does anyway.

Last month I left home for a good two weeks or so and she didn't seem too ruffled. This time, I knew that she wouldn't care.

He created timepieces—standing grandfather clocks with pendulums swiftly swinging, delicate wrist watches, and a large variety of clocks mounted on the gray walls. I knew next to nothing about him at first. He stood as tall as the grandfather clocks he built, but walked with a limp in private; one that would disappear completely in public. For years, I helped him in his workshop, determined to make him my friend. He became my role model; my brother. I called him C.M.

I had accidentally found his workshop one day in May. It had been raining on-and-off all that week and I had been caught in the brunt of the storm two miles from home, in the middle of nowhere. I entered an abandoned building through a small hole in a low window. Inside my unofficial shelter from the pouring rain, there was a thick blanket of dust that gave everything, including the windows, a gray tint. Everything, that is, except the clocks. There were perhaps hundreds of them, all different in one way or another and without a speck of dust. Some stood tall and erect in corners, others sat idly on collapsing, wooden tables that were scattered all over the large, damp room. The letters C.M were written in careful lettering somewhere on the face of each timepiece I saw.

C.M. gave me a watch for my birthday. I kept it on my wrist where ever I went, only taking it off to shower. It was one that I knew must have taken months to complete. Clear glass was all that kept me from touching the spinning gears inside. Tough leather bands, sewn together with thick threads, clasped around my small wrist. The round, golden face had shined even in the earl-gray room of C.M's workshop, its bezel and case decorated with intricate swirls and spirals. Surrounded by the silver hour numbers were three letters: T.C.M.

He never told me his real name so I resorted to calling him C.M. He refused to do nothing else but glare at me throughout our first interaction and limped slightly as he walked; one leg shorter than the other. Almost everything about him was dark—his clothes, shoes, and skin—but his eyes which were like the color of a clear, blue sky. He never smiled or gave me a cheery greeting—for he seldom spoke at all—but even then, he had his ways of showing that he thought of me greatly. C.M. taught me how to repair old watch springs and replace used batteries and soon his workshop became my home away from home. Though I only called him two letters, C.M. was my brother.