This is the story of the most unwanted girl I’ve ever known.  She’s 11 years old, so too old to be a ‘little kid’ but too young to ‘take care of herself’, according to the law.  She’s also a hybrid; and in this society, hybrids are treated worse than dirt, because at least the dirt isn’t crossbred.  Half bat, half cat.  She has cat paws, cat claws, some stripes and spots, and a more feline facial structure…but she also has enormous ears, tiny fangs and wings, and a long tongue.  Hiding the fact she’s a mixed breed is simply impossible.

And even from the very beginning, the pregnancy that brought her into being, she was unwanted.  An accident.  Busted condom?  Didn’t pull out in time?  Some other oopsie?  She never asked the details.  She didn’t want to know.  Her parents, in all their wisdom, and somehow inspired by actresses and popular singers, named her Demi.  

…This is my story.

While I don’t remember a lot of my early years, I do know that by the time I was about five I first recall Mom and Dad having shouting matches.  And they were just constant, and not limited to just Dad.  Any time Mom was mildly inconvenienced by the fact I was in the world, we got to hear all about it.  Last diaper?  Out of milk?  Something spilled?  An extra load of laundry?  ‘You were an accident’.  ‘I never asked to be saddled with a fuckin’ kid’.  ‘She’s a burden on the household’.  ‘She ruined my dreams’.  She also drank way too much.  Sometimes a blessing when she’d pass out and we would get a few hours of peace and quiet.  Sometimes a curse when we’d have to clean up puke puddles in the middle of the floor, or Dad would have to go pick her up from the police station.  Again.

Needless to say, I was a bit of a daddy’s girl.  He’d take the brunt of the verbal accosting for me.  Let me take shelter behind his legs.  Tell me to go play in another room, or outside.  The worst ones were always ‘go to your room, sweetie’.  Those were the words that would always cause my heart to drop.  Because the walls weren’t very thick where we lived.  And I’d get to curl up in a little ball on my bed, and listen for hours to mom yelling about how worthless and awful and inconvenient and stupid and useless I was.  And this went on for weeks, months.  When Mom would tell me, snidely, to ‘go hide behind your dad’...I did.  

School wasn’t much better.  Public, of course, heaven forbid a little reject get anything but the most bottom-scraping location out of the public education system.  For daring to exist as a half-blood, and for being below the poverty line, I was subject to relentless bullying.  Pushed and shoved around, called hateful names, spit on, and…what I consider the worst…isolated.  Treated like I had some kind of incurable disease.  No one dared to associate with me, talk to me, sit with me at lunch - if they did they became associated with me.  And that meant they got treated like I did.  So I always found the back corners to sit in, whether it was in a classroom, in the lunchroom, or at recess.  A pariah, at six years old.  A first grader with social leprosy - don’t come close, you’ll catch it too.

This was the status quo for roughly three years.  Trade a home life full of either emotional abuse or being neglected for a school life full of bullying, jeering, pranks and enforced isolation.  I’ll admit, these years were a bit of a blur to me, as my mind did its absolute best to block them out.  Plus it all kind of runs together anyway.  Beating a dead horse, as it were, except…I wasn’t part horse.  I just felt so…awful.  There were no good choices, just…the lesser of two crappy ones.  No one should have to feel like that.  No one, especially not a little kid, should go to bed at night and wish to whoever was listening that she wouldn’t wake up the next morning because that would make everyone happier, or better off.  

I couldn’t even cry; it’s not that I wasn’t allowed, I just knew it would poke the bee’s nest that was my mother.  It didn’t matter how long I was gone, or anything I said or asked for when I was at home.  But heaven forbid…If Mom heard anything resembling a sigh or sniffle, there’d be yet another tirade about ‘giving me something to cry about’.  How ‘I didn’t know just how good I had it’.  How much worse that she had it.  And my ears were already black and blue from the yelling she did already, without needing to give her any excuse or reason for more.  And when she wasn’t yelling or throwing things, she was doing her level best to just pretend I wasn’t even there.  Wouldn’t speak to me, would walk right past me, would just phase me out of her mind’s eye.  When she could be bothered to cook, she would cook for two.  Her, and Dad.  Let me tell you, there was nothing worse than a day at school where everyone pretended you were invisible, chased by going home and one of your parents doing it.  Really builds up a kid’s self esteem and value for themselves, yanno?  

Dad didn’t wanna smack the hornet’s nest either.  He would…make me a cup of noodles once she’d gone to bed.  Or smuggle me a pack of peanut butter crackers, or some other kind of quick food.  So…at least I had that.  And when it was Dad’s turn to cook I got a proper meal.  I didn’t eat at the table, I never felt like I had any place there.  But at least I wasn’t scrounging for about half the week, sometimes more.  Sometimes I snuck leftovers after everyone was in bed.  Because if there was one thing I could ever claim to be good at…it was sneaking around.  Not being seen.  If I didn’t want someone to know I was there, I was pretty heckin’ hard to trace.  Light footed and nimble fingered.  And resigned to the fact that this was my lot in life.  That it was all that I deserved.

School lightened up some as the years passed.  Since most of the populace was determined to isolate the hybrids and misfits, at some point in time we all kind of…ended up in the same corner.  Started a little social group.  Still caught flak but, well.  We had each other.  A little support network.  There was me, a little white tigerfox named Diana (‘Didi’, pronounced like ‘D.D.’ - she was a gorgeous arctic fox with dark eartips, hands, feet, and little bits of tiger striping on her back), a slinky red panda/ferret boy named Rudy (‘the Cutie’...I…might have had a teensy crush on him), and an opossum/rat mix - his legal name was Johnathan but he hated it.  The only people who called him that were school faculty and anything that was like…serious business.  Legal, medical, and whatnot.  He tried short forms here and there.  John, Johnny, and so on, but nothing stuck.  Since his last name was ‘Ingles’, a slip of my tongue one day made me accidentally call him ‘Jingles’.  He gave me such a look, but…cracked a smile afterwards, and our little corner dissolved into giggles.  And to us he’s been Jingles ever since.  Anyone not in our group who’s tried has wound up with a bloody nose or busted lip for their trouble.  Jingles was always getting shipped off to in-school suspension for something or other.  He figures if everyone’s gonna treat him like crap, he’s gonna return the favor.  Might have been a little inspiring, if I wasn’t such a wisp of a girl.  No one would take me seriously, it’s like a kitten trying to be ferocious.  I just wasn’t capable of becoming the monster everyone made me out to be.

These guys made my godawful home life somewhat bearable.  For a few hours out of the day I could get away from everything.  I still had to deal with the older kids being jerkwads.  But…eventually…like…no one could take lunchtime from me.  And Dad was still doing his best to sort of be a buffer, or a shield between Mom and I.  You could still tell something was kind of wrong though.  He wasn’t ever..happy anymore.  He pretended to be, especially around me.  But he was always on edge.  He cried when he thought I couldn’t hear him.  And muttered a lot to himself.  I couldn’t make it out, he always thought out loud but kinda under his breath?  If that makes any sense.  And it was like the color was fading from him.  It wasn’t, literally, but like…I don’t know any other way to describe it.

My biggest mistake was thinking things had settled into a status quo.  That…although not optimal, things might be okay.  Then came the night I’ll never forget.

It was the night before my tenth birthday.  While Dad and I tried our best to avoid Mom…we didn’t manage well enough.  In the evening, he was in my room to tuck me in like always, and telling me about how we’d go spend the day at the mall, look for a gift, grab a bite to eat.  Just the two of us.  I dared to dream.  It..sounded like a perfect day.  Nothing was ever perfect for me.  I hugged him tight, and said I would look forward to it, and…a shadow cast over the room.  Looking up, there was Mom, standing in the doorframe.  Of course she was drunk, and apparently very angry tonight.

A long rant happened.  “You aren’t spending my money on that…that thing,” was the..unfortunate, memorable line.  Dad stood up, after hearing enough, and just said “Move.  Enough is enough.  Let’s drop this, and go to bed.”

She didn’t drop it.  We didn’t go to bed.  “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?”  I sighed, deeply.  Hugged my knees, and tucked my forehead against them.  This was worse than the usual fight.  There was so much malice in her voice that night, and the back-and-forth between them lasted hours.  And the more Dad tried to de-escalate things tonight, the worse it was making her.

And then, the crack of a slap rang out, so crisp that it made me wince as the sound echoed off the walls of the room.  She hit him.  She hit him!  She had never gotten physical with either of us before.  It was always just verbal tirades until now.  Dad didn’t lift a hand in response.  He didn’t move, he was kind of stunned.  And…then the backhand rang out just as loudly, cracking across his opposite cheek.

He took it all.  No retaliation, no words, no nothing.  He didn’t even defend himself.  He just…let her do it.  I lost count at five times because my eyes were so welled up and I wanted like nothing else to just be invisible.  Or be gone.  It felt like this was all my fault.  If I wasn’t here Dad wouldn’t be getting hit.   Mom might have a chance to be happy.  The schoolkids would have one less person to make miserable.  Don’t cry, Demi.  Don’t you do it.  Don’t you fuel her fire.  Don’t even remind her you exist.  Swallowing those emotions was so hard.  The lump in my throat was enormous.  

Her fury finally burned itself out once she realized she wasn’t getting a response.  She wanted a fight.  She wanted someone to blame.  And since he didn’t give that to her, she eventually stomped off to go pass out somewhere.

Once I couldn’t hear her anymore, that emotional dam broke.  Heavy, wet sniffles.  Sobs.  Apologies…so many apologies.  They were the only words that could seem to spill out of my mouth as I blubbered through it all.  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’msorryI’msorry.  And I cried until I couldn’t breathe.  And then when I thought I was finished, I looked up.  I made eye contact with Dad and his eyes…they were just…empty.  Completely hollow.  Like Mom had just slapped all the fight, heart, and soul out of this poor man.  Like…his psyche crumbled, tonight, when a line had been crossed that he wasn’t prepared for.  Like he’d spent months, years bracing up for something to break, ensuring that there was no way it could break, and then it broke anyway; and in a manner that there was no way to fix it.  It…it was kind of terrifying.  Like nothing I had ever experienced before.  And the sobbing started all over again.  I couldn’t stop it, it was just rushing out of me.  My big shirt was soaked, my knees were wet, my hands to the wrists were, too.  This was all my fault.

“Shh, shh, Demi.  Shh.”  The shell of the man that used to be my dad said, almost reflexively.  There was something very flat about his voice.  I chalked it up to him still processing the fight.   “Go to your room, precious.  I’ll…go make you some cocoa.” 

Hot chocolate was a special treat in my house.  We didn’t have mixes, or marshmallows.  It was just…chocolate syrup and milk, heated up in the microwave.  But it only came out after the biggest fights.  It was…kind of a guilty pleasure of mine.  The taste of recovery, of moving forward.  Of leaving the tears behind, just one more time.  Sure enough, he came back in with a warm mug.  The one he kept in the back of the cabinet where Mom couldn’t see it and break it in a rage.  It was pink.  And in overly cute bubble letters, it said You’re Good Enough.  And had a little drawing of a cute starry-sparkly otter underneath it.

I let it warm my hands up a minute…somehow my extremities always felt like they were freezing when I was sad.  Ears, tail, wings, hands, feet.  I sipped when I could stop feeling like I was choking on whatever gunk was in my head.  It was…bitter, this time.  I couldn’t place it.  Dad knelt by the side of my bed.  He stroked my hair, and pet down my back until I finished…like he always did.  

“Are things gonna be okay?”  I don’t remember my own voice sounding so…small before.  I felt so helpless.  And I was starting to feel drowsy.  The emotions left this…void in my chest as they all came out at once.  And tiredness seeped in to fill that void.

I finished up, and handed the cup back to Dad.  And as he set the mug on the flipped-over milk crate that passed for a nightstand in my room to reply to me, his voice sounded small, too.  

“I...I don’t know, anymore, sugar.”

And I wanted to cry all over again.  He didn’t act like this.  Normally he’d have something positive to say.  Something encouraging.  Something wasn’t right.  But I was so sleepy I couldn’t think.  Maybe it was for the better.  

“Rest, little one.  Dream happy dreams.  I love you.”  I don’t remember him leaving my room, he had to have stayed until I fell asleep.

I woke up…mid-morning.  Later than usual by a good 2, almost 3 hours.  I wanted to say I needed the rest after last night.  But Mom was at it again, and while I wanna say you ‘get used to it’...being woken up by your bellowing mother…you never do.  Something felt different, though.  And not just that it was my birthday…like…something felt very…off.  The fur on the back of my neck was standing up.  I rubbed my eyes and peeked out into the living room, and…

He was gone.

Anything that..remotely could have been considered Dad’s property or belongings.  It was all gone.  The house felt so empty, and it was.  His clothes, his books, his dishes, the little combination tv/vcr that we’d watch cartoons on, even any pictures that had him in them.  Mom had finally caused him to snap.  He packed everything up in the middle of the night and left.

Not only was I trying to process the fact that my anchor and the one thing standing between me and the wrath of my mother was gone…I also knew just how light of a sleeper I was, and this was weighing on me.  There was absolutely no heckin’ way he could have moved all this stuff and not woken me up–wait.  Wait just one freakin’ minute.
I turned back into my room, walked to my nightstand, and picked up the mug.

In the dregs of a little pool of cocoa were the expected darker swirls of syrup that didn’t mix in properly.  And some little white flecks that looked like tiny gravel.  The realization hit me and I had no idea how to feel.  Dad had slipped something in my drink to make sure I stayed asleep.  This was…I don’t want to say premeditated.  But it was planned.

This was all my fault.  He was gone.  He was gone and he didn’t even say g’bye and it was all my fault because if I would have woken up maybe he wouldn’t have had the heart to leave but I didn’t so it’s all my fault and please don’t leave please please come back don’t you love me anymore what happened please make this all just a really horrible dream come back I need you …please don’t go…

My emotions were everywhere.  Abandoned.  Alone.  Worthless.  Helpless.  Angry.  Upset to the point of wanting to throw up.  He was gone and nothing I felt or did would bring him back.  Part of me didn’t even blame him, like…he put up with so much for so long, just for me.  For someone who wasn’t even worth it.  I locked my door, I set the mug back on the crate, and I just…fell to my knees.  My arms went limp at my sides.  My head drooped, I felt my chin against my chest.  But I didn’t cry.  I didn’t know how to feel when every emotion was pulling in every direction.  I don’t even know how to describe it.  Like every bit of feeling just evacuated.  All at once.  And left this little girl on the floor trying to figuratively piece herself back together, but things were so shattered that no one knew where the pieces went.

Mom heard the little ‘thud’ from my room as my body weight gave in on itself.  The one time I didn’t have the presence of mind to be quiet or mindful of my own presence around her.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday.”

The sheer amount of venom and spite in her voice stung me just as much as a physical slap.  Just pretend I don’t exist again, like you’re good at, I wished for.  Because I didn’t have the guts to say it out loud.  I choked on my sobs.  I swallowed anything that bubbled up.  I kept reminding myself to not make it worse because I always make it worse. And…even in his last moments in this house, Dad taught me that not giving her a fight was the path of least resistance to her finding something else to do.  And, thankfully, she found something else to do.  Whether she left, passed out, went back to bed, or found something else to do with her time…I was glad for the reprieve. 

Things got worse after that, because of course they did.  Without Dad around to be a buffer, Mom’s temper flew straight in my face.  Nothing I ever did was good enough.  Nothing ever would be.  Blaming me for everything.  Thanks, Mom.  I do that enough myself, compounding it is just perfect, I dunno what I’d do without you.  I learned to do chores at home.  I learned to cook a little.  To do my own laundry.  I had to.  All Mom ever wanted to do with any money she brought home was funnel it into another wine bottle or twelve-pack or dime bag or…maybe harder stuff.  The only person I could rely on to take care of me was…me.  A latchkey kid even when my mom was right in front of me.  An orphan in all but name.  Dad’s family lived too far away to be able to do anything about…anything.  And you can only imagine how little Mom’s family thought of her.  Whether it was because of the awful way she acted and treated people, or that she had a mixed species marriage and a half-breed kid (yay, more things to hate myself for), they wanted nothing to do with her.  Or me, by proxy.

My friends were as supportive as they could be.  And there was no way I could cry at school, the other kids would latch onto it and I didn’t need to gift wrap them more reasons to jeer at me and ridicule me..  So we’d all sort of meet up after school was out.  Whoever was free and could host, we’d go to their place.  Mostly Didi’s house, sometimes Jingles’.  Rudy’s parents weren’t much better than mine, so we weren’t about to impose ourselves there; it would only make things more difficult for him.  Didi’s mom always treated me like one of her own kids when I was around.  She couldn’t offer a spot at her table too often, but when she could and I got a hot meal that wasn’t in a styrofoam cup, I always got a little sniffly.  It was hard to explain how meaningful it was for someone to treat me like someone who mattered as I was wiping my eyes after saying grace.  I didn’t even treat myself like that.  Some weekends she let me sleep over.  No one ever said ‘if it’s okay with your mom’...they all knew her reputation by that point.  So either I went with her knowing, or..I snuck out and went anyway.  It’s not like she’d ever know or care if I was gone.  I blame Didi’s mom for…being the reason I didn’t just run away.  Or end up malnourished.  Or wind up in trouble, somewhere, somehow.  I had places I could cry, that I could eat, that I could get away from my home life.  My friends all made sure that I didn’t forget how to smile, even if it was the hardest thing to do.  Even if I couldn’t, some days.

I started doing odd jobs around the neighborhood, too.  Whatever I could do to avoid going back home in the afternoons after school.  Mow the Richardsons’ lawn.  Clean the Millers’ pool.  Take a to-go container with leftovers in it to Old Man Wilkins.  He was always so happy that people were being thoughtful of him, and as disabled as he was, he couldn’t do it for himself.  I built up a little reputation around the area as being scrappy, and reliable, but always looking sad and distant, even when I was smiling.  I can’t imagine why.  There were still the usual suspects who didn’t want ‘some lousy fifty’ touching their belongings or on their property.  But that was fine because I didn’t wanna deal with their stupid awful insults and pointless hatred anyway.

If there was one thing I was ever grateful to my mother for, it was the fact that she wasn’t into invading privacy.  She never came into my room.  Ever.  She was more than happy to treat it as like..a spare closet full of clothes that never needed to be looked into or dealt with.  Oh, yeah, there was this other little thing in there too.  So easy to forget about.  What was it, again?  Oh, right.  Her daughter.  Sigh.  Anyway, I was able to squirrel away the small bits and pieces of money and tips I got from those odd jobs.  Used it to buy necessities.  Laundry pods.  Cup noodles.  Bottled water.  Extra clothes if there was enough work.  An electric kettle.  Always had to deal in cash because I am eleven - a bank account would require Mom’s signature, if they didn’t just laugh me out of the building.  Which would mean Mom knowing I had an income.  Which would mean all my work would be for nothing because she’d say some junk like ‘it’s time you earned your keep around here’.  And she’d just drink, smoke, or snort it all away.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to another year.  I never got over Dad leaving.  I never heard from him again, either.  That pit of emptiness is still there.  So is the way I blame myself for it.  No amount of counseling is ever gonna get rid of that.  Mom…didn’t even remember my 11th birthday.  I spent it in my room, with a cup of noodles that was stone cold by the time I was done pushing it around and feeling sorry for myself because now my birthday was also a persistent yearly reminder of the day everything fell apart..  I wanted out, but…I was eleven.  I couldn’t fend for myself.  Sure, I’m feeding myself and barely self-sustaining right now, but I couldn’t find a place to live on my own.  So I’m trapped here, in a place I’m not wanted.  In a room that’s a self imposed prison, somewhere I go when I need to be forgotten.  I’m really lucky to have decent friends, and at least some people who care, sure.  They’re what keeps me sane - but it’s always temporary.  A bandaid on a knife gash.  And it always has to end because no one has a permanent place for me…and then I have to go back to this thing that passes for my life.  

I spend so much time stuck in my own head.  Blaming myself for everything.  For being born, for messing everything up, for driving everyone away.  Wondering why things can’t just be normal.  Wondering, sometimes, what it would be like if I wasn’t around.  Do I have the guts to do anything about that?  No…no, I’m a coward.  The notion is terrifying.  I feel so…broken, anymore.  Sad and quiet, all the time.  Hopeless, helpless, worthless, stupid, undeserving, unlovable…

And that, as promised, is the story of the most unwanted girl I’ve ever known.  Welcome to my life.
–Demi