CELEANA CROSSE // DISTRICT ONE {FIN.}

He said that when I was born I stole her life. He growled through a bottle of vodka, hands white-knuckled, teeth bared, as his eyes promised vengeance. I hadn't even done it swiftly, he snarled, there was no drop of kindness in my heart, he'd scream, at the apex of the night, when the clear poison was a drop away from vanishing and he couldn't walk on his feet. A stumbling mess that made my heart twist in my chest, knowing and believing that I was the reason he'd become this way. Instead I'd let her suffer for thirteen long years, I'd given him hope, a broken man hope, before tearing it away from him. You didn't give a child a new toy only to break it before them, he said. Soul crusher, heart breaker, vial, disgusting creature, the insults were endless, his demons far greater then my own now that the kindness of my dead mother was long gone from his system.

I had those same deep blue eyes that she did. They were bottomless pools, that he had fallen in love with, he'd loved mother so dearly, with his entire heart and being, and then she'd gotten sick. The shine to her eyes had begun to fade over the years, as the fighting had gone an and on. There had been a point when we'd all thought she'd beaten it, then a midnight trip to the hospital as crimson pooled past her lips, and spilt onto her shirt, and it was over. She remained in the hospital for weeks, sometimes smiling so brightly you could forget that the blueness of her eyes was a grey sullen shade of what it once had been. All father had to do was look at my face to see what he'd once had. So he turned to blaming me, and as two, three years passed and mother's body remained six feet under it was hard not to believe I was at fault.

Father would wave a hand in the air, his breath reeking of alcohol, a bitter sting to my senses as he explained what I'd done. It was the same almost every night, a showering of verbal slaps, before the real pain began, and I fled the house, pale hands glued the the blood that smeared my left cheek - always the left, never the right, lest he completely ruin me. It doesn't matter how many times my own pleas settle on the edge of my lips, I cannot speak them. The whispered agony that rips into my heart has to remain so, it has to fester and grow within, because to tell father that I wished, every single day, that it had been me instead, will not make him happy. Truly, his happiness is all that I want.

My father had once been an incredible man, and I was certain that if I were not there he'd become great once more. A daily reminder of what he'd lost probably wouldn't help him gain it all again. He was strong, just as mother had been, to find his own feet again, without my aid, was what he needed. If I remainder in that house, life would only continue on a loop, of him seeing her in my eyes, and face and movements. Even though I feared being forgotten he needed to forget who I was, he needed to swallow that pain, or let it devour him, either way I would only make it worse. It was why I decided to leave, three years ago, after that final beating, I fled out of the house, red fingers clutching the side of my face, and I didn't look back.

There are days when I stand before that old house, dirt stained hands, hanging limply by my side, feet itching to step forwards. Would he recognise this face? With cuts and bruises that were more vicious then the ones he left? The blonde hair matted and broken? I do not know, but perhaps he would, because my eyes are as bright, and filled with life as the day that I disappeared. But it is not the thought that he might recognise me that stops me from going home. It is, in fact, the feeling of five sets of tiny eyes glued to my back that keeps my feet firmly on the ground. It's the picture of those young faces, of those kids on the streets, of those broken bodies that I had to protect that stops me. I'd suffer a million lives to see them smile once more.

Stubbornness, was a gift from him, though. Three years being on the streets and Id learnt nothing about survival. The few bits of food and clothing I had managed gather together went straight towards the younger ones that roamed the streets. My maternal instincts were strong, my determination to make sure they didn't suffer, even stronger. It was a different kind of pain, altogether, to watch children suffer. So, instead f watching I'd try to fix it, my days were spent finding items to give them comfort, to help them in the cold, and feed them when they were in pain. I'm good at nothing, really, Career truing was a total bust, however, what I lacked in natural talent or skill, in general, I made up for with a willpower defined by fire and determination.

The ache in her hollow stomach had grown familiar, to the point where a good nights sleep was achievable, being able to ignore it was a skill, it took months to get the hang of. With father, I'd believed I was porcelain, breakable under pressure. Cracks running through my entire being, from one too many knocks. But I'm not, because fragility means to be able to break and I'm not breakable, I'm strong, I'd give up my life to protect the people I love and care about. I don't give up, not ever.

This world is a beautiful place, I see it every day. In the lining of the morning, where the sun begins it's climb, to the beauty that has ingrained itself in the trees that fringe the streets. I see it in the birds that dare to take food from shops, to the dogs, that no matter how thin, abandoned, or ragged they are, play with the children on the streets. It scares me, to think that the mark I'm leaving will not be enough to be remembered. I'd die in a heartbeat if it meant that someone I loved survived. There's nothing in this world that means I'll be remembered when I die, that's why I try to leave my own mark, whether that be a drawing or painting on the side of the street, or a memory burned into anthers mind. I'll live, so that others remember who I was, so I'm not forgotten, because being a mere spec in this world isn't enough, what's the point in existing if no one knows you have?