Page 1 of Splintered Desire

My life’s always been kinda shit, but right now, I’m not sure it could get much worse.

I thought it was bad when I was younger, and it was, but this is a different level, one that I wasn’t aware was even possible as a child.

I grew up in a shit town, in an even shittier little apartment complex. My dad worked his ass off, but it was all he could do just to keep food on the table, and it wasn’t ever enough. Most nights, we ate microwave noodles. As a kid, I loved them. Now, after years of them, I can hardly stand to look at them. There were plenty of nights when we would be down to just one pack. Dad always tried to give them to me, insisting he wasn't hungry. It wasn’t until I was about eight that I finally caught on. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry; no, he was probably a lot hungrier than I was; he just wanted to make sure I ate. He put my hunger above his own.

He put me above him.

Life was shit, but Dad always did everything he could for me with what he had. It didn’t change our lives or the shit we had to deal with, but it felt good knowing he was always in my corner.

I don’t remember my mother; she could be standing in a crowd in front of me, and I wouldn’t be able to pick her out from every other stranger. Dad never talked about her except for the rare times that he would comment on how I looked just like her. Whenever he did, his eyes would get sad. I didn’t want him to be unhappy, so I never asked about her. Eventually, I just didn’t care. She wasn’t around, so why waste my time?

If she didn't want to be around, that was fine by me; we didn’t need her, anyway.

My dad was my whole world, and I hated the idea of him starving so that I could eat more. One of the girls in my class at school recently lost her dad. All I could think about was him withering away and dying, leaving me all alone because I ate all the noodles. The night I realized he wasn’t eating because of me, I lost it. I cried and cried, too hysterical to even explain what was wrong, and he held me the whole time.

Looking back on it now, I can only imagine how it must have seemed to him that I was crying over noodles. But he was always patient and kind. He held me until I was calm enough to explain why I was so upset and then held me again after I lost it all over again thinking that he might die and leave me alone.

From that night on, we shared the noodles when we were at our lowest.

We had a routine. Every morning, Dad would get me up and give me something small to eat, enough to get me through to lunch, which the school provided for free. We walked to the city bus, and he rode with me to school before taking it to his job. After school, I rode the school bus back home. Dad worked later than I was in school, so I was alone for a few hours. Dad couldn’t exactly afford a sitter, but I didn't really need one. Old lady Jan was only two doors down and would often come to check on me when Dad worked late. He said it gave him peace of mind. I’m not sure why, considering she was older than the dinosaurs, but it did, and that was all that mattered.

When I got home, I would do my homework and clean up. We didn’t have a lot, so it wasn't as if the house was ever really messy, but I wanted to help Dad any way I could.

After that, I would usually read until he got home.

But even as much as I loved reading, I couldn’t do it every day. We didn’t have many books; they were too expensive, but Dad would bring home second-hand ones he found at a good sale every once in a while. Thankfully, the library was right down the road. We tried to go at least once a week, but they only let you check out three books at a time, and I was usually finished with them the same day. On days when I didn’t feel like rereading a book or just didn’t feel like reading, I would go down and play at the park.

Though calling it a park might have been a bit of a stretch. In reality, it was a rusted old metal swing set and some tires in the ground that had been put in half-assed. It was sad and pathetic, just like the apartment complex we lived in, but it was better than nothing, and back then, I loved that death trap of a playground.

The best part about it was that it was near the edge of the parking lot. Most of the residents couldn’t afford cars, so it was almost always empty. There was an old basketball hoop that the older boys used on the far side of the lot. But right next to the grass, someone had taken an old can of spray paint and painted hopscotch squares on the pavement, along with a few fun little designs. I loved it.

Whenever I went out, I would grab a piece of the busted concrete to toss, hopping back and forth until my legs were no better than jello, hardly able to support my tiny body.

Dad always said it was good for me to be active.

When I turned ten, Dad finally said I was old enough to go to the library on my own. I practically lived there after that. The second I was off the bus, I would head there to work on my homework. I kept my books in my backpack, so I was able to get new books every single day.

It was the best present my father had ever given me, and I was ecstatic.

It’s also where I met Ozy.

The apartment complex we live in might be full of kids, but none of them were my friends. Nobody really was.

The one and only friend I’d ever made was a girl named Sophia. Her family had moved into one of the apartments on the top floor when I was about seven. She’d been the first person to play hopscotch besides me. Most everyone else fought over the swings.

I’d walked out to find her with a shiny rock instead of the chunks of concrete I always used. Watching her, I went over and sat down on the curb, ready to wait my turn the way Dad taught me to. I sat pulling up the little bits of dead grass, letting my mind wander to nothing of meaning as the sounds around me flooded my senses. The sound of the boys who fought with sticks like they were great knights in battle. The squeak of the old rusty chains on the swings as girls pushed themselves higher and higher, uncaring of the way the legs would come off the ground with every pass. Kids screaming and laughing, and the way that shiny rock hit the ground before the girl would hop all the way from one end and back to the beginning.

I was known for ‘daydreaming’; it was a problem my teachers loved to tell my father about, despite my good grades. But I wasn’t really daydreaming. There was nothing magical going on in my brain, more a lack of things. It was the one time I was at peace.

Which is why it’s not surprising that when she came over and crouched down in front of me, I almost jumped out of my damn skin.

I jumped so high that I scared her, and she fell back on her butt, which was enough to send us both into a fit of laughter.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I told her after I got myself mostly under control again.

“And you scared me!”

Fair.