Reconstruction of Memory - Tylier Driscoll

My elbow lied on the armrest, with my jaw in my hand. As I glared out of the window, I let my eyelids float along my eyes. I felt tired, but I couldn’t go to sleep because the bus was too cold, so I sat in silence and watched my reflection cascade over the mountaintops. When did I get so old? It feels like just yesterday I was living with those I used to call my family. My family and I were kinda like a beat-up car. It’s funny now, but we were so beat up that we were constantly in need of repairs. Everytime the mechanic fixed us there was always something else, we were always in need of an oil change.

This one time, I had to be about 15 and I did not want to live with my parents anymore. I hated it. Living with them felt like living alone because there was no support.

“I’m hungry,” I said to my mom who was tucked away on the living room couch.

“Well go find something to eat then” she said casually, as if we had food in the house to sift through.

“We only have these arbitrary ingredients, I can’t make anything out of these.” I responded, hoping that she’d throw me a bone and feed me.

“Well we have bread, and a toaster. So figure something out.” This was my mom at her most helpful. I looked at her from our tiny kitchen and I saw that she’s sank into the couch even further than she has before, she’s not getting up. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get up from that couch before.

“We don’t have anymore bread, I ate it all. You’ve been telling me that for the past three days.” Then she said something along the lines of, “Well, look for something else then. You need to learn independence, start feedin’ yourself. I’m not gonna be here all the time, start lookin out for yourself,” she continued.  “‘Cause at the end of the day it’s kill or be killed.” She answered.