MangoTannga
Typer
Troubled. She knew it was what she was. All her life, that word was the first thing to come out of people's mouths when another asked about her.
The first time that Elizah heard the word "troubled" come out of someone's mouth was when she was first sent to Patingson's Home For Girls. She was only 6 years old and had seen, felt, and thought of too much for a little girl like herself. Elizah had walked past a room where two staff members were having lunch together.
"Yes, the new one Elizah, poor child watched her father beat her mother to death." The lady closest to the door shook her head and rested her wrinkled cheek on her hand.
"No wonder she looks so lost and troubled." The other sighed.
Now almost 18, Elizah decided she was done with being taken and put back over and over again. Sure, the Home was wonderful, but Elizah hated it there. Late at night, before the clock struck 11:30, she left everything. She knew that her most valued items would only slow her down and keep her from what she really wanted: to be free from her past.
Escaping the low-security building was easy, and Elizah didn't bother turning around to look at her old prison. She ran and ran until she could no longer run and eventually she collapsed in a dark and dirty alleyway. Sitting up against the cold brick walls, Elizah caught her breath and brought her knees to her chest. She then found herself sobbing into the dirty sweatshirt that she wore. Who could blame her? She was of course troubled.
The first time that Elizah heard the word "troubled" come out of someone's mouth was when she was first sent to Patingson's Home For Girls. She was only 6 years old and had seen, felt, and thought of too much for a little girl like herself. Elizah had walked past a room where two staff members were having lunch together.
"Yes, the new one Elizah, poor child watched her father beat her mother to death." The lady closest to the door shook her head and rested her wrinkled cheek on her hand.
"No wonder she looks so lost and troubled." The other sighed.
Now almost 18, Elizah decided she was done with being taken and put back over and over again. Sure, the Home was wonderful, but Elizah hated it there. Late at night, before the clock struck 11:30, she left everything. She knew that her most valued items would only slow her down and keep her from what she really wanted: to be free from her past.
Escaping the low-security building was easy, and Elizah didn't bother turning around to look at her old prison. She ran and ran until she could no longer run and eventually she collapsed in a dark and dirty alleyway. Sitting up against the cold brick walls, Elizah caught her breath and brought her knees to her chest. She then found herself sobbing into the dirty sweatshirt that she wore. Who could blame her? She was of course troubled.
