Patience isn't limitless.

I don't know whether I was being patient though, enduring all that, or simply stupid and naïve. Maybe just scared. I was a kid after all.

But I grew up and I've had enough. That incident was the drop that spilled the glass.

I picked up my remaining dignity, pushed myself up, and looked at her. She said it herself that she wanted me out of her life. My mother wanted to kick me out so bad and I'd had enough of hearing her complain about my 'sorry ass' every day.

Sometimes I would wonder why she never did but then, whenever I look at her passed out on the floor, face down with money sticking out from weird places on her body, I just know.

My mother was as scared and lonely as I was, in her messed-up way. Because after they all left her to rot and leak on the ground, I was there. I was always there.

But, not anymore. Never again.

I scrunched up my nose. She glanced at my tiny body towering over her and sneered. "Want another round? I knew you'd come around."

I kept my neutral face for a couple of minutes while she sat up, wincing and complaining about how sore she was. I didn't know how I'd ever loved this woman or how I thought she could - somehow, one day - get clean and become the mother she's never been. And will never be.

"I hate you." 

Wide eyes fixated on me, mouth agape. "You can talk?!" She all but screeched, her voice sounding like a strangled mouse.

"Of course I do. I'm eleven, not an idiot." I scoffed. She truly was unbelievable. But, I didn't blame her. She never bothered teaching me how to speak. We've never had a conversation or spoken about anything whatsoever.

"Shut the fuck up, you ungrateful little shit." She snarled, gritting her teeth. My heart picked up its speed, blood pumping harder, faster. My palms started sweating and I barely controlled my breathing.

"You're a pathetic excuse of a mother and I hope you rot in hell." I didn't know where that came from but it felt so good to let out some steam. I was just a messed up girl with an abusive, alcoholic, drug-addict prostitute as a mother.

She gaped at me as I turned around, put on my shoes, laces untied, because I didn't how to tie them, and walked out listening to her rant about how I was so impolite and rude and how I should wait until she teaches me some manners. I scoffed. What manners?

Too bad, I didn't want to be like her.

Glad she didn't get to lock the doors after everyone left; I dashed outside and ran and ran and ran until I couldn't anymore. Until my lungs protested for air. Until my muscles burned from the sudden exertion. Until my feet ached so badly. I stumbled and fell to the ground, scraping my knees and elbows.

I cried.

I cried until my tear ducts couldn't produce anything anymore. I cried until the hole in my soul was ripped even more. It was gaping wide, sucking me in and I welcomed it with open arms.

I didn't know what to do. I had no proper education, no friends, no shelter. Heck, I probably didn't even have an identity. I wasn't going to be accepted anywhere.

An outcast.

I was an outcast. No kids wanted to play with me. Their parents wouldn't allow them. Their parents...they'd give me a look of disgust and pity. But, no one ever helped.

I didn't expect them to.

I was simply enjoying my freedom. I have never been out this long, never looked around. Always scared I might get caught, punished, locked in. So, I played as much as I could, swinging, sliding, building sandcastles, running around like a ghost let loose in the playgrounds.

Rumors even started about it being haunted.

I didn't care. The solitude they offered was welcomed.

The library was my number one favorite place in the world - silent, warm, and full of books. I just read, read and read. No one bothered me, a mere disheveled kid sometimes dozing off in the deserted corner.

You would be surprised by how long someone can live off trash cans. From food to clothes, the big containers had everything. Bags, big boxes that helped me build my own home, makeshift shelters to shield my skinny body from the bite of the frozen wind, curious gazes, and unwanted company.

A stray dog would sometimes cuddle my back as I would stare off into the distance, rocking my head slowly to lure sleep in. It was as safe as it could be.

One night, however, I found myself running. I didn't know why. I just remembered fear squeezing my heart, choking me. I was running, clumsily making my way somewhere.

I woke up in the hospital after that. I was shivering despite the warmth the heaters offered, my body tense but melting into the mattress below.

I found out that I had fainted at some point; my lungs were damaged from the cold and my body collapsed from malnourishment. The doctors were on alert, doing their best to keep me alive. I almost told them to take it easy, to stop. I had my fair share of life. I just wanted to sleep for some time - maybe forever.

I didn't though, because the person who found my crumpled form and carried me all the way to the hospital was no one other than the old lady from the shop that gave me a cookie once. The cookie that I didn't get to eat. She walked in, arms wide open and green eyes red-rimmed. Warmth wrapped around me, wet cheeks rubbing against mine.

"Oh, my child, what happened to you?"

I didn't know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. My lips refused to move anyway.

Apparently, she found me unconscious, curled up behind a dumpster nearby. Faint whimpers reached her ears and she peeked around. She was the only one who bothered, the only one who ever tried. She was the only one.

"My name is Catherine, by the way. You can call me Cathie," she said.

Cathie kept visiting me, always at the same time with steamy, mouth-watering meals. She paid for all of the expenses. Then, when I was discharged, she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the nearest police station.

I was paralyzed the whole time. Everything I knew about the outside world was from TV shows and movies. To say I was petrified was an understatement. What if they took me back to my mother?

My chest moved rapidly, breaths coming out in short pants. My fingers gripped hers tighter. I didn't want to let go of it.

"Easy, sweetheart." Cathie cupped my face. "I won't let anyone harm you ever again."

It turns out, in order for her to be able to adopt me, my biological parents had to turn up and renounce their parental rights. But first, authorities must be informed. They will then work hard to find any family I have.

Luckily, it didn't take long before they found my mother. She looked the same, all sunken eyes and ashen skin, barely able to hold herself upright.

She never looked my way.

I watched her, listening intently to everything she said. My biological father was one of her first and constant clients, Italian, a gang member. He died from an overdose a couple of weeks after I was born. His identity was unknown.

My mother was traveling from Russia to study in England with the help of a scholarship when suddenly, she blacked out only to wake up in a huge container with hundreds of other girls. Kidnapped from the airport on her way to university and then sold into prostitution.

A pang of guilt twisted inside my heart, soon smothered as recollections flooded my head. No matter what happened, it didn't give her the right to treat me the way she did.

Perhaps life was finally on my side because the court didn't take much convincing to terminate my mother's parental rights and soon I was ruled abandoned then up for adoption.

That, however, took much longer.

The process was draining, frustrating, and nerve-racking. A lot of reviews of documents, pre-adoption classes, written references, home inspections, and sessions with a home study provider. More paperwork had to be squeezed in and finalized as soon as possible so I can finally have a name.

Months passed in a blur and then, finally, I was officially part of the Patterson family.

Needless to say, my name is Zia Patterson and I have a new home, a new family, a new mother.

The only mother that I'll ever have.

MEANING OF THE WORDS USED:

Catherine is a girl's name of Greek origin meaning "pure".

Zia is a name of Arabic origin meaning "light".

The symbolism of the color green: It represents growth and renewal, being the color of spring and rebirth. Another association is "getting the green light" to go ahead, giving it an association with taking action.

Note: This story takes place in the same universe as my first ONC entry in 2019: "Eurêka". (Horribly unedited and needs lots of work) This chapter indirectly ties it to it. If you read it, you'd know hehe.