This is a realistic fiction, based on my own journey to meeting my birth mother. I’m trying to keep it as real as possible, without being dull. Constructive Criticism is most welcome! :)



Chapter 1:


My whole life has been planned out for me. Well, maybe not my whole life. Simple and some complicated things, I never had a say in. I wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends or go to parties, rarely would I even be allowed to go to school dances. All of my extracurricular activities were scheduled for me. Soccer practice, dance class, Shakespeare rehearsal, guitar lessons. I didn’t get to breathe until I left home. But somehow I still felt like I was suffocating.

You see, when I was born I lived with my mother and father. They weren’t married, of course, and never bothered to. I mean, they broke up when I was five, so it’s probably a good thing that they never made it official, right?

Anyway, before I had my first birthday, my older brothers and I were taken away from our parents. I never really got the details explaining why, but I heard things from just about everyone except my mother and father.

My foster mom, the woman whom I spent most of my life with, says that the living conditions were just disgusting. How would she know though, right? I mean, it’s not like she was living there. But she wasn’t the only one to say it, so I knew it had to be true. In fact, a few of my social workers would say that the place we were living in was so bad; the toilets were backed up, dirty diapers were scattered all over the place, the walls were filthy, and it must’ve seemed like we hadn’t eaten properly in weeks, if not months, since the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. The place reeked of poverty and neglect.

My brothers and I spent about a year going from place to place until they put us into a permanent home. We even lived with our father’s half sister for awhile. I remember her telling us stories of when we lived with her and my uncle.

“You was the cutest thing, Scar, I swear.” Aunt Kathy would say. “And you could’ve pitched for the major leagues, no lie!”

“How’s that? She can’t see two feet in front of her.” My brother Mikey would tease me. It was true, though. I’ve been a klutz for my entire life, always knocking into things.

“Oh, when she was little… Boy, could she ever aim! Hit anything in sight, including you and Jamie.” I used to beat up Mikey and my half brother Jamie all the time, according to our aunt. “I remember you was in your high chair, Scar, and I’d just put out a full carton of milk on the counter. You grabbed your bottle, started winding it up, swinging it from the nipple-” I always cringed at words that sounded naughty, even if they weren’t bad in that context. “-until you finally let it go and SPLAT! You threw your bottle from clear across the room. I didn’t even care that the milk was all over the floor and counter. The fact that you could hit from that far away… And the look on your face! You knew that you was just proud of yourself.”

That story always made me giggle, even though I couldn’t actually remember it happening. I can’t remember anything before I was five-years-old, which is when we stopped getting visits from our birth mother.

I didn’t remember being taken from my aunt and uncle either. We would’ve had a good life with them, Aunt Kathy always said. She was probably right too. But Social Services disagreed. From what I understand, there was an older lady who came to visit while Aunt Kathy was at home with us three kids. Everything seemed to be going fine until my uncle came home.

The second the lady got a look at my black uncle, she wrote that it was an unfit environment. Even though my uncle was a cop. A good cop too. In fact, he was working corrections at San Quentin when my dad was there. Doing time, not working.

My brothers and I must’ve went through at least 20 different “homes” until finally we were placed with an older woman by the name of Sandra Wilson. Jason, my foster brother, was already living there when we were placed with her. I slept in a crib in mom’s room, while Mikey and Jamie had their own room. I never knew what it was before we came. Never asked.

When Jason finally moved out, his room turned into my room. The walls, which were once covered in 49er posters and pictures of “hotties”, were repainted white and donned with pictures of The Little Mermaid and Winnie the Pooh. Over the years, my room was filled with soccer pictures and trophies, Barbie dolls, Aaron Carter posters that I still haven’t taken down, several music players, CDs, anything that you could think of. She treated us as well as any parent would treat their kids.

But sometimes that just wasn’t enough. I was always fighting with my brothers. Whether it was for attention or to prove that I was just as tough as them, I’m not sure. Eventually Jamie got tired of it. He moved out when he was 15 and hasn’t looked back since. Of course, he’s made a lot of mistakes, but so has Mikey. I’ve probably made the most.

When I was in seventh grade and Mikey was in his first year of high school, we were both diagnosed with mental diseases. I had depression. Still do. Mikey was diagnosed with ADHD, but I still say he’s bipolar. I mean, come on. He got pissed when mom wouldn’t let him spend the night at his friends house, who, I might add, is the most perverted person you could ever meet. Mikey said he was going to “make her pay.”

I remember one time, mom left us alone and he was watching TV. There was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles marathon on that he just had to watch. That’s right, fifteen years old and still watching cartoons. I sat down on the couch and took the remote control to see what else was on.

“Put it back, Scarface!” He demanded, using a juvenile nickname that I had earned after a hockey accident. I ignored him and kept flipping through channels. “Scar, put it back! I was here first!” Mikey got up from his seat and tried taking the remote from me. I held up my foot and pushed it against his chest, so he couldn’t come any closer. Bad idea.

He grabbed my foot and pulled me off the couch, making me fall on my backside, while my head hit the edge of the couch. Mikey reached for the remote again, but I kicked him in the face. Another bad move on my part.

Mikey’s glasses split, luckily leaving his eyes unharmed, but his ego was anything but untouched. He tore off his glasses and stared at them. For a moment I thought he was frozen. That is, until his head started to shake violently. I thought he was having a seizure. What was I going to do if he fell over and started foaming at the mouth? I couldn’t really remember anything from the first aid class I took a few years prior.

However my worries were sustained when Mikey’s gaze met my own. I raised an eyebrow at him, which probably was another bad move. He turned around and stalked into the kitchen, grabbing one of the carving knives out of the block. I stood back up and made to sit down, but Mikey was already in front of me. He pressed the knife against my throat and stared at me.

I don’t know why I wasn’t scared. I was never scared with Mikey. He was never as strong as I was. I had always been a bit more of a flashy person whilst he hid in the shadows, never really wanting to be noticed.

“Go ahead.” I egged him on, knowing that he wouldn’t do it. There was no malice in his eyes. I could see his bluff. He was weak, standing several inches taller than me. I glared at him, wishing he would show some backbone, the freak. I mean, really? How could he let his little sister bully him for his whole life?

“I could do it!” He said, his voice shaking. I could practically feel his hatred towards me. I tortured him his whole life, and he hardly ever fought back. He pressed the knife into my skin and I could feel the skin beginning to break. Maybe he had balls after all, I hoped.

Unfortunately he released the knife from against my throat and threw it at the window. I was disappointed in him. Maybe I was being ridiculous though. He didn’t want to get in trouble, I was sure, but I wanted to die. I blamed my brother for my own weakness. I could cut myself deep enough to draw blood, but not to take my own life.

By the time I reached high school, I had developed an addiction. I would eat whatever I wanted and hurry to the bathroom before I was able to digest anything and I’d throw it all up. I could make myself throw up without sticking my fingers down my throat. I just flexed my stomach muscles and rolled them.

I wasn’t bulimic. I just liked the way it felt, vomiting. It felt like liquid fire was streaming through my esophagus until it was finally dispensed into the toilet or sink. Whichever was closest.

I got caught once by mom, but she thought that I must’ve been sick, since my hands were dry. Eventually we went to see a doctor about it since it was happening quite frequently. I didn’t say anything about my ability. I never said anything. Maybe I just liked the attention.

The odd thing was that when the doctors stuck a camera down my throat, they took a picture of my stomach and said that the lining of mucus in my stomach was thinner than most people. They said I had Acid Reflux.

Mikey knew the truth, because after awhile I lost my power to vomit. I resorted to using the end of a toothbrush and he walked in on me. I was embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything. The whole time, he kept his nerdy mouth shut, which was a feat for him. He was always spouting off annoying, random facts and the one time he could’ve helped me, he didn’t. I guess I deserved it though. I ruined his life and was in the middle of ruining my own. Why interfere?

In my last two years of high school, I was in my own world. I had become obsessed with my English teacher, who I thought was brilliant, but everyone else seemed to think was a joke. I couldn’t hide my obsession from anyone. Not him, not mom, not even the other teachers.

My brother thought it was the funniest thing and teased me non-stop about it. Thinking back on it, sure, it’s embarrassing, but it’s rather funny too. I acted pretty ridiculously, somehow believing that he would fall madly in love with me, when in reality, we couldn’t have been more wrong for each other. I realized that in my Senior year of high school.

That year was the hardest for me. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, nor was I prepared to start the next chapter of my life. Everyone said I should apply to college. I could be an architect or an artist, maybe a writer or actress. None of it seemed to matter to me though, so I didn’t apply for college until it was almost too late. I can’t even remember who convinced me to go to college, but whoever it was, I’ll never forgive them. College was going to be a lot worse than high school, I just knew it.

At first, I was excited, still in my Senior year, I was accepted to a good school in my city, one of the best. I got grants and scholarships, even though my grades were less than perfect, having never applied myself to my fullest potential. I was even getting housing, in the Suites! Only rich people lived in the Suites. I couldn’t believe my luck.

As it turns out, it wasn’t luck at all. In my first week, I knew it wasn’t right for me. It couldn’t be further from my dreams, which I still hadn’t figured out. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life now.

A month into school, I was on my site, when I received a friend request from someone I hadn’t heard from since I was five years old. My birth mother.




The next chapters go off into story mode more strongly. If you want, message me and I’ll give you the second chapter for a better idea. Feel free to add me as well. I enjoy meeting other aspiring authors, published others and readers! :)

(And for more of a general description you can view my blog. It’s got the first chapter and a synopsis of this story.)

Unfortunately, it reads like your personal diary for the most part, and leaps across so much time as to become more of a hurried synopsis.

However, you do put together some good images, and have a knack for story telling that shows you have promise. Your grammar is reasonably clean - kudos there, you really must have worked on this. I think, at this point in your writing, you should be pretty much where you are. Oh, it’s not ready for prime time by any means, but you are heading in the right direction.

Here’s some suggestions. Learn how to write in Third Person limited - all new writers flock to First Person because it seems so easy - but in truth it is one of the harder points of view to write correctly. This is why it reads like a diary and is chock full of narrative. Switching point of view will help you out of that habit.

I think Plot And Structure will help you a lot. Put some more organization and cohesiveness in your story.

Hey, nobody said it would be easy, but you are on the path.

Kerry

I would also suggest: Power of Point of View by Alicia Rasley.

As per his usual, Kerry’s advice is spot on.
For short course clarification of third person limited/subjective, you may want to take a look at this;
www.http://fiction-plots-pacing.suite101.com/article.cfm/writing_in_third_person_point_of_view

And please; don’t let a few critical but constructive remarks sway you from moving forward.
Keep at it!
Like golf or piloting a plane, no matter the level of mastery, there’s always room for improving one’s skill level!
Good luck.

Thank you all so much! This has definitely been most helpful!

No worries though, Ron, I take constructive criticism quite well, but thank you very much!