I can’t swim. How can anybody? Water is just a liquid, nothing to hold on to, how can people glide around on it like its thin air? I remember when I was a little girl; one of the older guys in the foster tried to drown me, by grabbing me and dunking my head under water. How ever, he underestimated my strength and I kicked the shit out of him, sending him flying into the water. One of the kids watching, told Mrs. Stone; the foster mother, that I got angry for no reason and pushed one of the kids into the pond. (Of course he “accidentally” left out the part of where the kid tried to drown me.) I bet he was wishing I had drowned. Everyone was. This just made me hate them even more.

Mrs. Stone always carried around a bamboo stick that she would whip kids with if they were bad. Only I was the only one she whipped it with. All the kids in the foster home set me up or blame me for their wrong doings. I think they enjoy seeing me get hurt. I can remember the nights where I would just sit up in bed and cry. I would cry for the way I was treated and cry because I wasn’t loved. I was truly beginning to believe that the only I was brought to this earth was to be abused and be everyone’s slave.

Oh right, I forgot, I never told you that part. Well, when Mrs. Stone ever left the house or turned her back to us, all the kids would threaten me, and make me do their chores. And I did them, what choice did I have? No matter what I did I would be whipped, even if I did my chores (not to mention everyone else’s). Now if I did something wrong like talk back or screw off, then yes, I can accept being punished. But whipped? No one deservers that, not even high criminals, and especially orphans who just want a place to live. If this is what life is like in every family, then what is the point of living?

My birth was a mistake. I should have never been born. A drunken man found my mother on the street and fucked her up. Nine months later, I was born. Now my mother, being only fifteen, was in no condition to take a child, so she left me on the streets to die. My “father” was a drunken bastard who was later found dead by a dumpster shortly after my mother came pregnant with me. Someone found me on the streets and took me to the police station, however, I was too young to tell them who I belonged to and my mother nor did anyone ever come for me. I was sent to live in a foster home. For fifteen years I was teased and taunted by foster children because I was different than the rest of them.

I have long black hair, and pure greyish-green eyes. I am anorexic and bulimic and my arms are covered in scars I have given myself with a pocket knife. I started smoking at age ten when I found a pack of cigarettes in one of my foster parents’ drawer when I was hiding from the other kids not wanted to get beat up again. I would even sneak down stairs in the middle of the night and drink gin from the cupboard. My ears are filled with holes from all the times I have pierced them, I even have a lip ring. I always where long clothes to cover up my scars that I bare, though my face shows my pain.

By the age of fifteen, I set out on my own, trying to find at least just one reason why I was brought to earth. I have searched and searched have yet to find an answer.

My name is Raven, I am sixteen years old, and I am alone...