When people asked me who my parents were, I always said “Robert and Mary Smith.” Some people would laugh and walk away thinking I was nuts. I didn’t think I was, not when I was eight year old. I remembered convincing myself that the lead singer of “The Cure” was actually my father. I had this old beige suitcase and in it was my shirt, a pant, a p.j. and my toothbrush, like any other child who had high hopes for Santa Clause or the Fairy to come by and help fulfill their innocence that was taken away as the years went by. I thought Robert was going to come and take me away. I waited everyday and cried at the night time because I started to realize he wasn’t going to come. My parent (the one I’m living with) thought I was nuts and sent me to the doctor. The doctor told my parent that I was a manic depressive and send me off with a bottle of ritalin. I guess doctors had the solution for everything. However, the old beige suitcase is still in my closet collecting dust. I didn’t have the chance to take it out because if I did, I would have faced my innocence.
Happy Nightmare Baby