Living Amid the Myths

I'm here at the Library.

I was too sad at home and at least here the Library makes me feel better.

If anyone's looking for me I'll be either working or up on the roof.

I'm glad there's no more blood everywhere.

My dad... he didn't like me. I don't think he liked me even before, but after...

I was... different and I knew things he didn't want me to and sometimes if I was there long enough to be in school people would start asking questions and he'd get so angry and say we had to leave.

He drank a lot and he would rant and yell and swear and say terrible things about me. How bad I was. That I was a freak. That I should have been the one killed instead of my mother. That he wished I was dead. Other stuff like that.

Not like I couldn't hear what he was thinking anyway.

He didn't really hit me. Much. But when I got older he'd look at me and I could hear the things he was thinking. Things you're not supposed to think about your kid.

So I ran away as soon as I was 16. Before anything happened.

People here tell me he was wrong and not good, but I still... I still kind of love him. 'Cause he was my dad, you know?

But I don't ever ever want to see him again.

My mother... I wish I remembered more about her. But I remember laughter and cuddling. Her long hair wrapping around me like a curtain. And if I listen very carefully I can still almost hear her talking to me. In Lakota or English. I know she loved me. Loved me so very much.

And people here say she'd want me to be happy, that she'd say my dad was wrong and that I was okay and that most of all she'd wanted me to live.

I hope they're right. I like to think they are.