esra perry. five.

So not only did my parents abandon me when I was a kid, they had the nerve to give me a boys name too.

Shocking, right? They were probably too drunk to realise it, writing a Z backwards that it looked like an S, I feel bad for the poor nurse that had to give me a bottle because my Mom just wanted a drink. Selfish bitch, sticking me with a stranger and a shitty name. I knocked politely on the Justice Building doors a few times to see if they'd let me change my name but I need parental permission to do that and, well, I don't have any parents.

I've got my big sister Simone, but we're not supposed to tell people that she's looking after us else they'll throw us all in the orphanage. Even though she's eighteen now she'd rather we keep our mouths shut - personally I know exacty what she can shove in her mouth to shut it but I'll save that insult for a particularly nasty fight. We never used to quarrel this much, but as I got older and more independent I realised that I didn't need her holding my hand and watching my every mood. It's annoying, quite frankly, the way she plays Mom and Dad. She tells me I'm being a brat but whatever, I can take care of myself. I'm almost as tall as her anyways, bet I could pass for eighteen.

The lady at the shop thought I was at least sixteen three years ago when she caught me trying to hide an unopened lipstick in my boot - I don't know why I did it, I think I was just bored. Or hoping that Simone would pay more attention to me, too busy chasing after the boys to care about her only sister. Well it got her attention alright, and lucky I was only twelve and she could convince the lady I didn't know any better. Part of me was kinda disappointed that Simone turned up and not Mom and Dad - not that I want to see them, just to show them that it takes their daughter almost getting arrested and thrown in the Detention Centre for them to give a rats ass.

Guess they wouldn't even care if I lost my tongue, huh? Whatever, I don't need them or Simone or Ziggy or even Ace. I just need me, myself and I, lipstick in my boots and getting to keep the spare change rather than giving it back to the grocery fund. My friends at school would whine "Ess, are you sure you can't come to my birthday party?" and I had to tell them we were busy, less embarrassing than admitting I couldn't afford a gift. It didn't make me sad - it just made me angry. So I took things that weren't mine off of shelves and out of pockets and gave them sorry-I-couldnt-make-it gifts at school the next day. Fuck poverty. I'm so much better than being poor.

And I envy them, the girls at school with kind parents and money to spare. Ribbons in their hair and shiny shoes, there's a reason I've never invited them over to my house before. I've been to theirs and even if their houses are small like mine they're tidy and warm, cozy - not cluttered like mine. I'd never tried coffee before I went to one of their homes, giggly and jittery walking home with chocolate stuck between my teeth and dreams of a better life dancing in my eyes. It's a wonderful, temporary dream - but I know I'll get there one day. I'll have a warm, tidy, clean home all to myself, far away from the chaos of the Perry household. I'm not sure how much longer I can take living with two teenage boys and a grumpy, strict, overbearing sister.

Simone tells me to stop complaining and I tell her to fuck off. I didn't ask to be born any more than I asked to be poor, or for her to be my sister. She tells me that life's not fair, and then we die, and then I scream at her that I might just do that. I'm never serious - most of the time, anyway. But she always is. Simone with her serious face with furrowed brows and a sharp tongue. I love her, I do. But I also can't stand her most of the time.

We look so unlike each other I wouldn't be surprised to learn at least one of us were adopted, or at least had a different Dad. I wouldn't put it past Mom, knowing what she's like. I hope it's me, the pretend-Perry. Then maybe I could change my last name and go live with a family of blue eyes and blonde hair - but Simone and I's eyes really are strangely massive, and that's not a coincidence. We're both tall and slim, the same nose and slender fingers, the same eyebrows and crooked smiles. I've got Ace's hair and pale skin, random moles scattered in nooks and crannies of my limbs. I wonder if Mom had them, or Dad. Not that I'd know. Not that I'd care.

I hate that we're all so similar almost as much as I love how different we are - anything to disassociate myself with this shitty, sad excuse of a family. I pick apart my appearance every morning, desperate to be someone I'm not. Someone older, prettier, skinnier, shorter, slimmer, more graceful, someone poised and proper. But I slouch, and pout, and bite my fingers til they bleed. My clothes are all of Simone's old hand-me-downs, ill-fitting and raggedy, and I long to wear something nice and new that hugs my lack-of figure and makes me feel pretty. Instead I get faded jeans and shirts with mismatched buttons and worn shoes that squeak with every step. Hand-me-down clothes for a hand-me-down girl that her parents didn't love enough to treasure. Tragic, huh?

But at least I've got my lipstick, pretty in pink, pulled out from my left boot when nobody's looking.