FicWad

Here I am. A great writer. A soon to be journalist. In a high school writing room. Why? Because my favourite teacher Ms. Ping asked me to come. "It'll be fun!" she said. "You'll get to work with people who share your passion!" I got excited. Probably a very bad idea. Sure they can write. But they were freshmans. With no life. I actually had one. It included writing. Writing a best-seller. Right down to it, it's probably already the best book ever written. It was my life story. With every problem I faced, from when I was three with my abusive parents, to now, bouncing between orphanages. All my relationship problems, and let me tell you, I have lots. It included quotes from my inspirations. One of them is Tianna. "Love me or hate me, you can't change me!" She is my best friend. We met when we were eight. We stayed in touch since. She has a huge part in my book. Another is from Ms. Ping. "As long as you know it was the best to be done, then you have suceeded." I take this quote to every class. The only one I don't need it for is English. I love writing, remember? The part I didn't write about? True love. Most people would write about their true love. I didn't. I couldn't. How could I write about something that doesn't exist? I couldn't. My imagination was taken out from me at my 3rd foster parents. They hated imagination. They hated children. They hate everyone. I was six. Even if I do follow Tianna's quote, I didn't know her back then. I didn't know what she could do. I do now. But it's too late. All I could ever write is true things. Heartbreaks, tears, abusive parents, all these orphan people. I can't write love. I can't read love. I like dark books. Nothing too dark but just... sad. I don't cry in them. Not the story about the girl who lost her family. Not about the boy who had his love thrown away. Not any of them. I know my life is worse. Way worse. Sure there are seperate stories about things that go on in my life. But never one whole thing. Never one where you could feel all my feelings, listen to all my thoughts. I will be the first. First to let people experience it.

Who am I? Maybe I should've said something. My name is Xena. I have no last name. I won't take my parents. I won't take any of those foster parents. If they actually love me they would've told me. They would've adopted me. My name means a woman warrior. Maybe those parents knew they would be this. Maybe they knew they would hurt me. Maybe they knew I would be strong. But I'm probably wrong. I bet they were hoping for a boy. A tough boy that wouldn't cry at the thought of a whip. Yes they hit me every night. All night. Maybe they thought of naming me Xavier. They might've made a typo. I wouldn't be surprised. Even fifteen years later, I remember everything crystal clearly. I remember my mom getting drinking. The foster care told me she got drunk and high. When I asked. Three year ago. I shouldn't have asked. I didn't care right? No. I did care. I want to know why my parents would be so mean to me. I want to know why they hit me. I hate those late nights when my dad came in. He would, all too eagerly, hit me with whips. Hard. On my ass. Really hurt. My mom would watch. She would laugh. I would cry. Even as I tried to sleep. I faked it. He would wake me up. He would hit me harder. Sometimes my mom joined. If she wasn't too drunk. That is exactly what I get for trusting somebody. I have whip marks on my back. Many of them. As I sit down, they would still hurt me. I still don't know why some people would be so rude.

The only people I ever trusted were Tianna and Ms. Ping. They are nice. They aren't rude. They like me. They don't want me to change. They feel for me. They think I could change. They believe in me. They think there is hope after all. I don't though. I should. After all that effort I should be greatful. But I'm not. I don't care. They love me and whether I change or not, they won't care. Hopefully.

As I was saying the room. The bullshit newspaper room. I was in it. I was here. I can write now. Here. Instead of my dark room full of screaming and running people. At least that was one good thing. A bad thing? The girl staring at me, as if she could kill me.