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Some people go to the Big Apple for stardom, others go to start over, and some go for love. What would you go for? I’m going for all three. You see, I grew up in Texas, as an orphan in children shelters and foster homes, never knowing my parents or anything about them. I didn’t even know where I was born. At least I didn’t until I aged out of the system and got my birth certificate, which stated “Anastasia Romano, date of birth: June 18, 2002, born in New York City.” So here I am at a greyhound bus station, ready to start my journey to the Big Apple for answers, a new life, and to make my dreams a reality.
Pulling out my journal, I continue where I left off. Did I mention I’m a songwriter? I am. I’ve been writing lyrics and singing for as long as I can remember. The shitty life I’ve had so far has been a constant muse to my words. I wouldn’t say my lyrics are completely dark, per se, but they are heavy and soulful. I joined the choir in the last children’s home I was in and sang mostly solos. I’ve been told my voice and style is dark and reminiscent of Billie Eilish.
Huge fucking compliment right there.
She’s an inspiration for me. Maybe not as big an inspiration as Edgar Allan Poe or Lana Del Rey but definitely a huge musical inspiration.
So yeah, I’m looking for a spot in the light too. I know it’s not going to happen the moment I step foot in New York. I know I’ll have to work hard for it and I’m willing to subway sing until I get my shot.
Whatever it takes.
I graduated from high school last year and got my diploma, but I’m not going to college. It’s not something I have any desire for. I won’t waste years just to get a degree in something I have no passion for. I want to have a new life somewhere no one knows me, somewhere I’m not known as the orphaned loner. A place where no one can remind me that my family didn’t love me enough to keep me.
I tried my hardest not to believe those taunts, but what else is there to believe when I’m sitting alone cleaning up my own cuts and bruises, tucking myself into bed and reading bedtime stories to myself? Maybe something happened to my parents and the state took me from them or, God forbid, they died when I was young? Those are possible scenarios, right?
Right.
Doesn’t change the fact that I had only myself to lean on. I had to learn how to fight and defend myself against bullies and sometimes I had to defend myself against the perverted caretakers. Yes, that’s right, sometimes the state paid caretakers who tried taking advantage of young children. Shocker, huh? The shelters in Texas are gender-separated, leaving the women to take care of the girls and men to care for the boys in separate houses, but that doesn’t always deter those sick enough to try.
Once when I was sixteen, one of the women watching over us girls for the night allowed the boys’ caretaker to come into my room and do what he pleased as long as she was able to go do a few lines of cocaine. Whether she knew what he was doing or not, I’ll never know, but that motherfucker learned quickly that I wasn’t some helpless kid he could rape.
I always slept with a switchblade under my pillow and when he put his filthy hand over my mouth to keep my screams muffled, I popped the blade out and stabbed him three times in the thigh. Almost got him in the face too, but he fell back with his fat little cock hanging flaccid. I guess a blade is a good mood killer.
“You stupid cunt! You’ll pay for this!” The moron yelled at me while trying to stop the blood from spurting from his leg.
Standing with my arms over my chest, I replied, “Right. I’m sure I’ll be in big trouble for stopping my attacker, who just so happens to be inmyroom, in the middle of the night, huh?”
He tried to stand, but I took a step toward him, ready to cut the bastard down. Just then the girls’ night manager came in acting all shocked.
Cue the eye roll.
I got moved the next week to a foster home and never saw the two again. I didn’t bother telling my social worker about the incident. It’s not like it would’ve done any good. I’ve spoken up before, told the grown-ups like you’re supposed to, and nothing ever happened past a write-up. No one ever believes the kids, especially when your record shows you to be “volatile” and “violent” as mine does.
I guess defending yourself when you get bullied or attacked by a pervert is frowned upon.
Fuck that noise.
Lay hands on me and I’ll make sure you remember who it was that kicked your teeth in. Sure, I’ve gotten my ass handed to me plenty of times, but I learned quickly how to defend myself, learned how to throw my own punches.
With finesse, I dare say.
Once, when I was fifteen and in a foster home, I got beat up so bad that I had to go to the hospital where the nurse taking my vitals quietly mumbled under his breath.
“Look, kid, I know you didn’t get jumped by a bunch of kids like dear ol’ foster daddy says, but I can’t prove it, so the next best thing I can do for you is give you this.”
He slyly slid a skinny, cold object under my hand. Looking down, I saw it was a metal handle with a button. Pushing it, a wicked double edge blade popped out.
“Push the button again and the blade goes back in. Don’t let that fucker or anyone else put their hands on you again, got it?”
Satisfied with my nod, he turned and walked back out with a glare toward my foster parents. He was right too. My foster parents had a thing for beating the shit out of me for their own enjoyment. I ran away that night after putting some crushed up sleeping pills into their wine.
So yes, I’m completely ready for a new life, in a new place, doing what I’m passionate about and hopefully finding out what happened to my parents.
As soon as I got my release fund from the state and my last paycheck from the waitressing job I had, I bought my bus ticket. The one hundred and seventy dollars it cost me better be worth it.
After hearing the announcement that my bus is ready for passengers to board, I grab my suitcase and backpack and climb the steps. Finding a window seat, I pull on my headphones and begin writing.
