The door opened, and my new “home” came into focus. The first sense to be assaulted was sight, with the stained walls painting pictures of the despair of past residents. Next came smell, the musty, sour smell that could never be changed, no matter how much we tried. Taking a step in, our ears heard the sound of old, creaking wooden floors, crying out from the pain of being used once again. It’s perfect, my brother, mother, and myself thought all at the same time. To us, it was the best we could have hoped for. The sign on the front read “Lincoln Connection: Shelter For Those In Need”.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. I was at the boundary that separated the sanctuary of everyday life from that of the battleground, where day after day was a constant struggle of trying desperately not to expose my terrible secret. The line was drawn at the threshold of a clear, glass door, with the words, “Eisenhower Elementary,” written in bold type across it. When I entered, everything of my home life became hidden, especially my address. If they knew the truth, then I knew they would treat me differently, as if I could not do what they could. So I went to class. It dragged on as it usually did, with me taking more notes and answering more questions than the others, in order to prove that I was normal. It was all a charade, however, because I knew I was different. I knew that I was not as capable as the others. No matter how hard I tried, I was always going to be less than the rest of them.

The bell rang and the day came to an end. Kids screamed with excitement because the bell signaled the beginning of their freedom. I sighed with relief, a slight smile making its way onto my face. I did it, I thought, I made it another day. I packed my notebooks and homework into a Walmart bag and crossed into the best part of my day, the time between the secrecy in school and the real truth of my world. Where the next fifteen minutes I could exist as myself.

The house was empty. No one was home. The usual warmth children associate with coming home after a long day of school was replaced by an eerie silence. We had no idea where our mother was. My brother and I were not concerned, however, because we were used to her sudden disappearances. We simply did our homework, ate with the other residents of the shelter in the kitchen, and watched television. Eventually, we went to bed, with our anxiety slowly growing, since she was gone for longer than she had ever been before.

There was a crash. We woke from our slumber, frightened by what might follow. Screaming came soon after. We knew at that point, tonight was going to be another one of our “long nights”. The screaming intensified, with insults sharp as knives cutting their way through our door, into our ears. Then we heard the distinct stomping of our mom and her girlfriend, heading towards the kitchen. The smell of alcohol slowly drifted into our rooms. We knew that this was the point of no return, where our night was determined to be absolute hell. Our ears were perked, waiting to hear for our cue to enter the stage of the great drama between our mother and her girlfriend. The conflict slowly escalated. The insults became harsher in their attempt to one-up each other. Each insult an ember being dropped into a barrel of gunpowder. It was only a matter of time until the explosion would happen. Then, silence. The harsh nothingness that existed for less than a second was the cue that we had waited for. The split second between the last insult and the first swing. We opened our door, ready to face the challenge that was before us.

Of course, what could we do? We tried pleading with them. We tried separating them. In the end, though, nothing worked. We were forced to watch as the fire burned itself out.

The clock read six in the morning, and all was finally calm. The adults, tired from their night of combat, slept. We, tired from our night of powerlessness, slept. Then, the alarm rang at seven in the morning, as it did every weekday. My brother, mother, and myself all woke up and went through our daily rituals. At seven forty, we were in the car. At eight, we had reached our destination. We slowly walked to the glass doors, which had, “Eisenhower Elementary,” written across it in bold type. I took a deep breath, then exhaled, preparing myself for another day of this charade.