“I Hate It Here” Angela-Marie Luna – Honorable Mention
The sun pierced through my Walmart button up that I had to pick from the Men’s Department, the only fittable choice. The heat crackled on my skin creating moisture in the most uncomfortable places. I hate it here. This particular place, the ranch. A cesspool of dust and heat that lingered for days. The dirt seemed to cover the double wide that was built atop a big pile of rocks and more dirt made to look like a hill. I bet when it was first placed there it looked nice. Now it was where all the horseflies lived. The cheap acres of land were consumed by rusty parts of cars and chucks of houses. It’s like they built a fort in the apocalypse with parts to spare. And now I had to spend the weekend here, living with the smell of horse shit and hay, manure and goat’s sweat swirling in the heat. What sixteen-year-old wants to be stuck in a hot dirt filled hell hole? I hated it, but I had no choice. When my foster parents felt like they needed a break, they would find someone else to look after you, like a pet while its owner was on vacation. In foster care we call this “respite” which by definition is “A short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant.” I thought for sure when my mom voluntarily relinquished her parental rights in front of me when I was 14, I was free of that monster. I was going to be well taken care of, that’s what movies had taught me, someone would take me in and love me no matter what. But I don’t remember respite being a part of that script, or the part where I move every few months, one different prison cell after another. This ranch was my respite, no way out. I hate it here. I was sixteen at the time, and now with the two longest years of my life being played out in foster care behind me, I knew my way around this hell hole. Newly fat, I hated myself. I was disgusting. I could see it, and they could see it too, everyone. Case workers and staff members in group homes looked at me with disgust from time to time, reminding me how far I was from being respected. No one was coming to save me, and I knew why. I wasn’t worth saving. If even my foster parents needed a weekend Creative Non-Fiction
Vortex
51
