My name was one of the many things my father chose for me. Orine was my name. According to my father it meant “chosen one,” according to me it meant “ piece of crap,” that was the way he treated me after all. After his death I began to call myself a new name; Layla. This name was much more suitable for a 12-year-old girl. I liked my new name. My friends at school had started calling me Layla as well, but the boys would never let it go. My new life was strange and twisted but I knew I would get use to it. Orine was dead like my father and Layla was much alive.
It had been days sense my fathers death when my mother didn’t come home. I thought she merely drank a little more than usual and had lost track of time. I continued my nightly routine like I would normally do and put myself to bed.
The next morning mother had not waken me up, I thought she must have been too tired to remember. I got up and began to ready myself for school. As I walked out the door I left a note for my mother on the table explaining were I had gone. My walk to school was pleasant and easy. I thought of mother on my way to school. Mother was never really too close to me, but she was all I had left. She was at least better than my father anyway. She often drank and smoked, but reasonably. My mother was beautiful and full of grace, but lately she had looked ruined and depressed. I only can hope she will be herself once again
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