Creative Writing on Personal Life

Here is my story that had no beginning known to me. I always had that feeling that I was different. My beginning was a secret and growing up alone with my mum I was curious about life. About my life.  Asking her to who I was, was a subject that she did not like talking about. She would often change the subject. Here is my story…

I used to live in a house nearby the beach. I could see the ocean every time I looked out my window. I saw cheerful families laughing as they played on the hot sand. The children screaming happily playing with their siblings and their friends. I never had the courage to go and play outside. My family was a little ordinary. My family consisted of just 2 members, me and my mum. Dad had passed away when I was 5 due to cancer and mum was the only one left to take care of me. I vaguely remember sitting on her lap every night while she read books to me as she fed me and singing nursery rhymes to me until I fell asleep beside her. Pretty much every day, the same things occurred every day. Life wasn’t the most fun. I missed out on playing with siblings because I never had any. I had no friends, the only friendship I had was with my mum, the bond between me and my mum was something that could never be torn apart. As I grew a little older, I became a talkative and a wonderative person. I didn’t have anyone to talk to but my mum. I was also curious which reflected my actions of me asking lots of questions, I wanted to know everything. I questioned everything that I could possibly gaze my eyes upon. My curiosity and questions never had an end just like the sky.

When I turned about 8, I remember looking outside my window towards the beach and asking my mum “mummy, why is the sky blue?”, before she could answer, I remember looking into her eyes and questioning her, “mummy, why aren’t my eyes blue like yours”. Her eye colour was a deep blue different to the hazel of mine. I remember dad also having the same coloured eyes as mum. her skin tone was also different. Her skin was a pale white colour, dissimilar to the warm brown colour of mine. I did not look or sound the same as my mum or like the rest of my family members. I kept questioning my mum from time to time and most of the time there was no clear answer, sometimes she’d just yell back at me and tell me to be quiet, and times she would look back at me and give a little affectionate smile but I knew she wasn’t smiling of joy, she smiled back so that she could keep me happy. Her body language suggested that I remain quiet, I learnt early to be quiet because my questions made her sad. from then on I remained quiet, I stopped asking all these questions about myself, I just wanted to keep her happy. However, there was a one-off instance where i got an answer from her. That one time where she grabbed hold of me tightly as if she was forming a cocoon around me and with a little faint smile, she whispered into my ear that I was a very special child. At this moment, I knew something was not right. I just wanted to know the truth.  At that young age, I had all sorts of crazy thoughts spiralling through my head. However, at times I felt as if my perceptions weren’t true as I’d thought of them to be, I tried taming my myths. I tried believing that my mum was my birth mum. The similarities and the bonds we both shared made me have faith in myself that she was my real mother.

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