17 - ALONE PART I

[nunnely]

“17 is the number tattooed on the right side of my head, my own personal number, soon to be explained…” 

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I’ve been trapped in my mind, lost in the enigma of myself. Unable to understand the outside world and haunted by the demons crippling at my medial temporal lobe. To the untrained eye, a troubled child is what they saw, tattoos covering my skin and the unusual haircut. I was aware of my outward appearance, but it was the least of my concerns. My outward appearance was an expression of the pain and struggles that my life consisted of. Some hurt more than the others, but rest assured they all added up to one thing: life. 

Life was full of struggles, some battled more than others. Me? Well, there really was no way for me to offer a definitive representation of the pain and struggles that had haunted my heart and soul. To put it to you this way, I lost my will to speak. No, I didn’t learn to do sign language to communicate with others because even that for me meant bringing someone into my life. Every corner I turned, one after another everyone in my life disappeared.  

I never knew my father, from what my mother told me he was a man that was better out of our lives than in. However, that left my mother in a struggling situation having me and my younger sister to raise. By the age of 14, I was out on the streets, panhandling and trying to find any scrap of cash in order to help pay the bills. I dropped out of school to help take care of my baby sister, my mother was working two jobs and could only do so much for us. She was an angel. 

I remember the times that we had when we had a little bit extra money from the month and she used to spoil us. The only thing that she could ever give us was the best and a normal childhood, but I knew that we were always far from it. I’d wear the same clothes for four days straight before I had to wash them in the sink. Sometimes it would be weeks depending on if we had the water bill paid for. We saved money by taking family showers: my mother, me and my little sister would all share a shower for five minutes because we couldn’t afford individual showers. It was heartbreaking to see the pain that my mother was going through. I know that she wanted to leave, every single day that passed I could see it in the bags under her eyes. Sleep was a foreign term for her, whenever I caught her passed out on the couch or the floor I would let her stay there. I knew she needed the rest, but she’d argue with me it was a waste of money for her to sleep. 24/7 this woman lived and breathed work, just so we could scrape by as a family. She even put off dating just to take care of us. 

My sister was too young to understand what was going on. More often than not, I was forced to cook for her and raise her. At 14 years of age, I had done more for my family than my own father. Lorelai, that was my sister’s name. I took her out of the broken down apartment one day to go down to the store. We only went in for the dog tag machine. I had scraped enough money on the side to make dog tags for her and I. We bought the chains and everything and I made them into necklaces. She had my name: Dominic on her dog tags and I had her name on mine. I told her that no matter what happened, as long as she had the tags, I would always be with her. It was a promise. 

One day, everything changed. 3 years to the date after Lorelai and I had exchanged dog tags, I lost what very little my life contained. I came home one day after panhandling on the streets to no avail. The door to our apartment was broken, slightly ajar and the door knob was missing. I pushed it opened to see full view of what was going on. My worst nightmare: my mother was tied to a chair, muffled and a gun to her head. A trio of guys turned and looked at me, one held my sister over his shoulder. She had to have been knocked out cold and tied up because she didn’t make a sound. Without hesitation, I sprinted forward and tried to assault the man with the gun. It didn’t make a difference. The trigger was pulled once and then again. Everything faded to black and the the last thing I remember was the cold barrel of the gun pressed into my chest.  

17 years of age: the age where I lost what little life had to offer me. I don’t know how long I was out, I don’t know how I survived, a guardian angel must have been watching over me that afternoon. I awoke in the hospital. The minute they heard me cough and take a breath I was surrounded by nurses and doctors, all trying to communicate with me. Question after question was bombarded at me like a machine gun. I tried to let a response slip from lips, but I couldn’t find the words let alone the sounds to respond. I was a living vegetable. That day, those three men took away my life. They took everything away from me.  

Within a few days I was out of the hospital, stitched up from the bullet wound. The bullet had gone through my chest and out the other end, but somehow I lived. The doctors, they couldn’t explain it. The only ones that could explain it where those of religious following: a guardian angel saved my life at the price of my voice. It was the story I went with and I believed. What other way would I be able to understand? A miracle? Please, it’d be a miracle to me to be reunited with my mother. It’d be a miracle to know where my sister was.  

I took my first step out of the hospital and...and I had no idea what to do or where to go. My life had become enveloped into a routine. I wake up, go find money, take care of Lorelai, help my mother, go to bed and repeat. Those jerks surely had to have taken whatever we could offer for cash. The only place that I knew was that apartment, so I started there. 

Upon arrival at my now vacated apartment, I saw that the police had already rummaged through everything. The place was swabbed, cleaned and everything. I didn’t know how many days had passed, if any. I assumed a few days considering the depths that the police went through. Our drawers were left open, empty with nothing. The only thing that was left was on the ground next to a sticky note. It read: “We figured you would want these.” Lorelai’s dog tags with my name on them. They had a blood stain on them, assuring me that they had hurt Lorelai. I reached for my neck and felt for the ones with her name on them. My eyes gazed down towards them, they were tainted with what I could only assume was my blood. I put her dog tags around my neck and listened to them clink against one another. Other than my own memories, it was all I had to remind me of her. My mom? I knew she’d always be in my heart, but I’d rather be able to see her. 

17. 17 years of age, I lost my mother and my sister was kidnapped. I had taken one too many bullets in my life. The one bullet I took to the chest was supposed to kill me. That intention of the men was clear. I was not supposed to be alive. I didn’t want to be alive either. I was in so much pain, I just wanted to take 10 shots to the brain and fucking end it. Jump from a chair and hang there just so I could be with my mother again. Depression crippled my cerebrum, flooding it with thoughts of suicide. It became nearly an obsession for me. I wandered the streets for days, weeks maybe, dumpster diving for uneaten food and panhandling for whatever I could get my hands on.  

Every morning and night, no matter if I slept upon a bench or on the streets, I prayed to my guardian angel that saved me. The only thing that gave me strength to continue on further in my life. I kissed the dog tags with Lorelai’s name on them every morning and night. I was just trying to survive. The majority of my spending went towards feeding myself, but for the next 5 years I had decorated my skin with various tattoos. The one that meant the most? 17. The one on the right side of my head. 17, 17 years of age was when my life changed. 17 years of age was when my life became more of a shithole than one could ever imagine. 17 years of age, was when I lost everything. I lost my mother, my sister, my voice, everything. I was a walking, broken shell of a human, unable to share my story and unable to share my struggle. I was alone, broken, and lost. It was only the beginning. 

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"I can't seem to find someone's shoulder. Who will I rely on when it's over?"