The Haunted Hairbrush

Cecily's Past

I drag myself over to my bed and collapse on it, cheek resting against the pillow. I know that tonight I'm probably going to drown myself in an ocean of self-pity and cry myself to sleep, but I also know that thinking about my unfortunate past and family life is all I can do right now.

My biological parents were not very good parents. My dad was rarely at home, always away on business trips and such. He never had any time for my mom and me.

I pretty sure my mom tried to keep it together, but she began to feel quite lonely and started drinking. By the time I was 3, my mother was an alcoholic and my dad, well, for all I know, he might as well have moved to the Bahamas or something.

My mom tried not to smoke in the house so I wouldn't choke on the smoke and get my lungs ruined. Alas, one day she was moping and forgot to take the cigarette outside. My mom didn't work so we lived off of whatever my dad gave us, which was, of course, steadily decreasing by the month. That meant our apartment was really small.

That meant the kitchen my mom and I were standing in that day was really small. Which meant the smoke traveled quicker up my nose and through my lungs. In a few seconds, 3-year-old me was coughing horribly, face all red. My mom had enough sense to call 911, who took us to the hospital.

I don't know exactly what the police were planning to do with my mom, but I do know it never happened. It was pretty late at night when I was at the hospital, around 10:00 pm I'm guessing. My mom didn't even bother waiting to see whether or not I was going to be ok, that's the part that makes me sob the hardest.

Did my parents ever really love me or not? A question I will never know the answer to. My mom got in the car, drunk, and began to drive. She crashed into a truck, on purpose I'm quite sure and managed to kill herself. I had nobody. I was only 3 and all alone in the world.

I know what you're thinking-what about your father? Well, turns out he was living in Egypt with a completely new identity. He'd somehow gotten himself forging id's and selling illegal drugs. Clearly not a suitable guardian, as he was caught and put behind bars. I didn't have any relatives, so I was put in an orphanage.

How do I remember all this stuff from 13 years ago? I don't. The lawyers and government people that handled adoption and such have told me. Old neighbors I don't remember. Old newspapers. Just bits and pieces, but I eventually managed to piece together the whole story.

The orphanage wasn't a happy place, and let's just say I lost a whole lotta self-esteem over there. Everything that happened there is mostly a blur, but I do vaguely remember being slapped by the matron or some other girls. I was adopted two years later at the age of 5.

I recall their surname-the Barlows. They were around 35. The woman was very strict and professional, and the husband was the opposite. They had a son named James. He was 3 years older than me and a complete jerk.

So I finally had a normal family right? Wrong. Because of their differences, the couple fought a lot. James and I were often caught in the middle of their arguments, which sometimes got violent. The husband either had a mental deficiency or drank too much because one-day things escalated to the point where he brought home a gun.

Let me make this clear: I always stayed out of their quarrels, but James was the one who tried to solve their conflicts, generally by shouting at them to shut up or stop. It's all a whirlwind of events, but I do know that somehow James aggravated Mr.Barlow to the point where he was shot. Through the head. By his dad. And I saw it.

Even though I was only 9, it's not something you can ever recover from. Obviously, the authorities found out and he was arrested, blah blah blah. I was back at the orphanage. This time, only for a few months until Granny adopted me.

She was kind and generous. She didn't pressure me to talk about the events that had taken place in my life, but knew that I had a rough past and didn't want to talk about it. Eventually, I disclosed the information and she comforted me while I cried.

Then when I was 15, one year ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It's getting worse every day and I really, really can't take it, so I try to ignore it. I think Granny hears my muffled sobs because I hear the stairs creaking and my door opens.

Granny walks over to my bed and sits down, stroking my back as I cry. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't try to make me feel better with lies. She just sits, stroking my back until I fall asleep.