The Flowers of HopeMature

(CLOSED COLLAB) Two abused children find solice from their horrible homes in a shelter and make friends, trying to banish the demons of their past.

I sit alone on my bed at night, I stare at the stars and wonder what would happen if I never was born. Sometimes I imagine that everything would be better, sometimes I think someone else would have just been lumped with my terrible life.

Being Zachary Louie Lovett Jr was never the best gig in the world. In fact, some would rather gouge their own eyes out than be me; if I told anyone what actually happened behind closed doors.

You see, my father is an alcoholic, my mother died when I was just two years old and all I have left of this woman who gave birth to me is a photo from when I was a few months old. I'm sleeping in her arms, a dummy half in my mouth, she's smiling and pressing her nose to mine. I have my mothers nose and eyes. I don't resemble my father at all. I wish every birthday, on every falling star, on four leaf clovers, and fluffy dandelion heads that I'm really not his son. That I really belong to this lovely man who'll look after me and not, well, I don't want to say.

My story really begins in a small street in New York. I lived in a one bedroom apartment with my father. I had a ee-zee bed in the lounge that folds into a chair. He had the bedroom with my step-mother. She isn't a very nice person at all either.

On the morning of my first day in the 5th grade I made a lunch-bag with a cheese sandwich and a plastic bottle of water. Mrs Johnson from across the hall greeted me and gave me a red apple because she did that sort of thing.

I walked to school five blocks away and went into Mr Cooper's class. I looked around and quickly soaked in the people I was to learn with. Mostly smiling faces with lunch-boxes that had superheroes, singers or cartoon characters on. Only one other girl and myself had bags, she had an unmarked blue plastic bag, I had the green and white Wal-Mart bag. At least I'd know my lunch from all others on the lunch trolley.

Mr Cooper started by handing out green exercise books and told us to write our names, his name and 'Maths' on the front.

I put up my hand, feeling very pink about the ears and sweating under my long-sleeved shirt. "Sir?"

"Yes... Um?"

"Zachary Louie Lovett Jr Sir."

"Yes?"

"I can't spell." I mumbled that last bit but he heard it loud and clear, as I'm sure everyone else in the room did also. 

Mr Cooper came over to my desk and knelt down, his knees clicked and his balding head shone in the fluorescent lighting. He spoke in the softest of tones to me, "Are you sure? Can you not read or write either?"

"I can write letters." I fumbled with my bag, the plastic rubbing against my sweat-ed hands.

"Like your ABC's?" He pulled his glasses from his nose and folded them, pushing them into his top pocket in his shirt.

"Yes."

"OK, well, I'll write your name on your books and I'd like you to stay here during playtime OK?"

"OK."

He got back up, leaning on my desk heavily. I wrote my name quickly, making sure it was spelled correctly according to the register.

Then the maths lesson started. I could do maths.

The End

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