Her name was Lina, she had a mild appreciation for money. They say her boyfriend was made of her ideals which, coincidentally, mostly consisted of money. They say he hadn’t been “well on the eyes”.
Her heart was hard as ice but every so often she melted at the sight of money. She fawned after him for years, pining for his utmost attention, and when I arrived that hadn’t changed. Lina was known as the type to sell her best friend for more money. Since she could get neither dime nor her boyfriends attention from me, I was worthless.
It hadn’t once occurred to her that she needed to share her wealth. This principle was applied to everything. My Mother hadn’t instilled much in terms of rules to abide by, or morals to follow. Her preferences quickly shifted from me, back to him, in the matter of a sharp swish of her voluminous eyelashes.
I was told I had been stowed in a strangers car, who then chucked me into the nearest orphanage. Then at 11-years-old, I was plucked out from amongst a million shortish, unremarkable, unexceptional kids.
My new parents hummed the most ghastly but catchy tune that stuck in my head for hours on end, and drove me to a slow drumming madness. I was told I was lucky. I was told it was a miracle to be chosen. I was told I shouldn’t have killed my new “parents”. I was told they were nice people. I was told to feel ashamed and mortified.