My Story

Loud crashes were heard downstairs. Broken glass, broken wood, broken people, broken everything was clouding up the otherwise quiet household.

My parents were fighting again.

Another regular event that happened every day, to every person in this neighborhood. As if it was a sign from the heavens, to put all of the most miserable families together in one hole. To keep us from ruining the sanctity of this town.

The "perfect" town known to man, Washed Away, what the locals would call it as it showed how the town's existence was practically washed down the drain when the big storm of 1998 struck, and left the town practically dead. It wasn't until the Mara family clan stood and mined for oil, they struck a small hole and made millions, pioneering the town to the 2,000 people living there today. Thought to the outside this town was known, to the small percentage of people who knew of it, as the paradise of the paradises. Better than Hawaii, better than Boracay even.

There are tall skyscrapers that look over the city, beaches with the clearest water ever seen. The malls stand tall with four floors minimum, handling all of the finest clothing brands, the finest foods, the finest restaurants, the finest flooring, even the finest bathrooms. Though it was only set up in the Northern part of town, where the posh, rich, and lavish people lived. Not here. Not here in the slumps where the best thing we have was a crowd-market, where the most expensive things were used cell phones that they sold in a stand, in the corner of the marketplace, away from the people. Away from the random shop checks from the police, trying to find the illegal sales transactions happening right in front of them.

Unlike the upper Northside, this town, this neighborhood, as many people would call it, Squatter central, as all of us lived in average-sized houses but lived more-or-less under poverty lines. Though it was only some, not all.

Sometimes it was just voiced screaming, yelling, yelling their agonizing cries, but other times it was worse such as this. Though no one can ever say anything as the police, at this point, refused to come to fix or change anything. It was just what it was at this point. Pure hell, without any signs of it becoming better.

Suddenly my door was opened there and he stood. For some reason, my face brought back the memories of his pain, the memories of the reasons as to why he lost everything in life.

He lost the will to live even, but somehow found it when he saw my crying, and even for just a minute he felt as if he was getting his revenge, his power back. The power that he lost along with his ego, and his pride the moment he found out.

And I let him. I just let him take back the power that he never deserved. I was taught to never speak back as it was considered rude, and that I should be thankful for what was handed to me. But it was never fair, nor handed to me. It was forced and pushed into my head. Though nothing changed despite it all being clear to me, even at a young age.

It was me versus his princess, or rather his birth-daughter, of course, he wouldn't even dare touch her because they share the same DNA.

After all, I'm just his stepdaughter. I will only ever be a stepdaughter in his eyes.

I'm a failure to him because I was formed by different sperm.

Not his but his best friends.

It wasn't my choice, as we can't all choose who our parents are. Or what our lives would be, and that's what causes us to break down sometimes. And sometimes what we can't control the most, is what can control us the most.