Misty

Ever since I moved out of that godawful house when I was 12 i knew my parents weren\'t fit to raise children. All they did was do drugs, drink, scream, and have sex. Everyday life was hell for me, either Mom or Dad went around yelling \"Cassi! Where\'s my beer?\" or \"Cassi! Where\'s my needles?\".. And if I couldn\'t find them I got beaten. A lot of the beatings were serious enough to be sent to a hospital but I never went. Then they would ask about what\'s going on at home. And Dad threatened me about what would happen if I told.. I got so sick of the beatings and the drug abuse I ran away from home at age 12 and went to live with my Aunt Jessica. She is the complete opposite of my mother. She even goes to church every Sunday. I lived with her til I was 19, then I moved out into my own house. About a year later I learned my \'parents\' had another child, a baby girl named Misty, my aunt called me and told me. Shortly after I went and visited my baby sister. My parents wondered who I was at first, then they remembered me, my dad pointed to me and said \"That was the first thing.\"

There were many times I had to babysit Misty, but I didn\'t mind. In fact I\'m sure she was glad to get away from the abuse for a couple hours. I remember when she was two I promised her that she would come live with me and get away from here. She smiled up at me, her one eye swollen shut from a punch. Those nights when I baby sat her she told me about the beatings, about how she was locked up, how her parents reffered to her as a \'thing\' or a \'joke\'. I looked at her petite arms and could see bruises, cuts, and cigarette burns. I wanted to take her with me and leave again, move to another state and start a business in literature, but my aunt said it would be best until I raised enough money to leave. She pointed out I wasn\'t financially secure enough to support me and a child. I wish I picked that time to not listen to my aunt.

When Misty\'s third birthday came up I gave her a small white teddy bear and I promised her that we were going to leave in less than two months. I have never seen a happier child. Everytime I saw Misty afterwards she always had her bear with her, like parting with it would mean she would have to stay. Her eyes would be dull from the day, then she would see me and her eyes would literally sparkle. I\'m not sure if my father overheard what I said to Misty (my mother died a few days before her birthday from a drug overdose), but the babysittings seemed to occuring less and less. Then they stopped.

I\'m not exactly sure what had happened that night, but this I know for sure. My father had gone to Charlie\'s Bar that night, and had gotten drunk and most likely high on something. He left my sister at the house alone without lights on, and she couldn\'t turn any on because all we had were lightswitches and she was too small to reach. According to the police my father had gotten home around 2 A.M. I could picture Misty trying to make herself blend into the wall in her room,so my father wouldn\'t see her. He was looking for her though, he blamed my mother\'s death on her. The police report said that Misty was beaten over and over again for about and hour and a half. I don\'t exactly know why I woke up from my bed that night, but I knew something was wrong at the house. I told the police I heard my sister scream, they told me that was impossible because I live halfway accross town. I told them screw you I heard my sister scream. I drove over to the house as fast as my sleep-clogged brain would let me.

The first thing I saw when I entered the house was my father passed out in the hallway next to Misty\'s room. There was blood on his shirt and his hands. My heart rate quickened as opened the door to her room, and then all meaning I had to my life ceased to exist. Misty lay on the bed, bruised heavily and bleeding madly. Her bear was stained red. I somehow walked over to the bed with her limp body on it and gently sat down and cradled her. I had promised her so much, and she was so happy..and now she was dead. I\'m not sure who it was that called the cops but a time later they showed up and ushered me out of the room and began asking me questions. My father was then arrested for murder, and taken away. A policewoman tried to lead me back to my car but I kept looking at Misty\'s room, the bear was still on the bed. I think she gave up on moving me and she walked with the other cops.

I walked into her room and picked the bear off of the bed. I was able to hold my composure for the police but now the tears flowed freely. Clutching the bear I slumped down onto the floor and rocked back and forth while I cried. God knows how long I sat there crying, who gives a fuck anyways. My Misty was dead. My goddamn drunken father killed her. Nothing else mattered now. After a long while my aunt showed up and gently picked me off of the floor and led me to her house. As much as I protested not to leave she insisted. I brought the bear with me. When we got to the house I walked into her kitchen and sat down in the same spot I always sat in when I ran away from home for the day. I saw a pad of paper on the table, I looked around the kitchen and saw a pencil. I took the pencil and paper and began to write. I wrote a poem for Misty. And I wanted the world to see it, the abuse we both endured wasn\'t right. It needed to end. When I had finished my aunt read what I had wrote and mentioned something about putting it in her obituary.

I did put the poem in her obituary. My father was guilty for first degree murder and was sentanced a lifetime in jail, the public insisted on it. Misty\'s funeral was a beautiful one. She\'s buried underneath a giant apple tree on a hill in the graveyard. Apples were her favorite fruit. Even now I still go visit her atleast once a week..I feel like I owe it to her since I wasn\'t in time to save her.

I\'m not quite sure how but my poem had worked it\'s way onto the Internet. Most likely my aunt\'s doing. One day when I was in college I was surfing the Internet and saw my poem on a site. Tears welled up in my eyes again. My message had reached the world. And then Martina McBride came out with the song \'Concrete Angel\'. So now when I visit Misty I always sing the chorus to that song, it\'s her song now. Even today, at age 28 I still cry when I hear it. My husband understands, he didn\'t even argue when I said I wanted to name our daughter Misty back when I was pregnant when I was 24. Misty doesn\'t understand who the little girl is in the picture on my nightstand. I told her it was my baby sister. She asked what had happened to her.. and I couldn\'t tell a four year old that she had died. So I told her she went to live with the angels, because she was an angel. Then my daughter said something so remarkable.

\"Mommy, she looks exactly like me.\"

Misty
My name is Misty I am but three
My eyes are swolleen I cannot see
I must not be loved for I am punished by cigarette burns
I must do right I can\'t do wrong or else I\'m locked up all day long
When I wake up I\'m all alone the house is dark
my folks aren\'t home
Im really just an expensive joke no more no less then speed or coke
Be quiet now! I hear the car my dad is back from Charlie\'s Bar
I hear him curse my name he calls I squeeze myself against the wall
on my bed its too late his face is twisted into hate
I feel the pain again and again
Oh dear God please let it end
My name is Misty I am but three last night my father murdered me....