The Two Hundredth and Seventy Eight Life-Part One
Alvis is what they named me. An awful name, I thought. A million different names that you could have called me, at least, and they chose some horrible misspelling of Elvis? I groaned, as I had beseeched my parents several hundred times to change it. They liked it, had some sort of an attachment to my mother's grandfather or something. I, however, had no attachment to this Alvis, and was sick and tired of Alvis, Alfie, Al, and all the other stupid names. Again, I gagged as I thought of them, bringing all of the attention in the small diner to me. People tended to stare at me a lot more than I would have prefered, because I didn’t like feeling watched. Or people in general. My mother, the woman who owned the place, stared at me over the counter, her small evil eyes glaring at me furiously. I cringed. My mother hit me a lot.
As I stood up, preparing to go outside, I heard her cheap shoes scuffle across the worn tile floor towards me, and her long thin hand with the sharp, red, pointed nails grab my wrist. I struggled slightly, though I didn’t want to make a scene. I would get hurt if I did, and I didn’t want to get hurt. I just let her drag me back behind the counter and sit me down on the bucket that had lain in the corner for as long as I could remember. I wanted to fly, but my mother only clipped my golden wings.
My heart dragged across the gravel path as I headed home, my hands in the pockets of my too-small hoodie. The bottom of it barely reached the top of my hipbones, and I was cold. It was winter here, and I needed more protection that some beat up sneaks and an old hoodie. My toes were freezing off. I winced visibly, wanting to just run. Run away, find somewhere else. I forced myself to keep walking toward our trailer, though all I wanted was to fly, fly far away where my mother wasn’t there and it was just me, quiet and silent.
I knocked on the door quietly, making sure that none of my mother’s boyfriends were inside. When no grunt came wisping past my large ears, I slipped inside and pulled the couch down, sitting and picking up a notebook and a pen, drawing silently.
As I stood up, preparing to go outside, I heard her cheap shoes scuffle across the worn tile floor towards me, and her long thin hand with the sharp, red, pointed nails grab my wrist. I struggled slightly, though I didn’t want to make a scene. I would get hurt if I did, and I didn’t want to get hurt. I just let her drag me back behind the counter and sit me down on the bucket that had lain in the corner for as long as I could remember. I wanted to fly, but my mother only clipped my golden wings.
My heart dragged across the gravel path as I headed home, my hands in the pockets of my too-small hoodie. The bottom of it barely reached the top of my hipbones, and I was cold. It was winter here, and I needed more protection that some beat up sneaks and an old hoodie. My toes were freezing off. I winced visibly, wanting to just run. Run away, find somewhere else. I forced myself to keep walking toward our trailer, though all I wanted was to fly, fly far away where my mother wasn’t there and it was just me, quiet and silent.
I knocked on the door quietly, making sure that none of my mother’s boyfriends were inside. When no grunt came wisping past my large ears, I slipped inside and pulled the couch down, sitting and picking up a notebook and a pen, drawing silently.