The year I turned eighteen was the year that I got my skull tattoo. It was a simple black outline that I saw on paper and had placed on the small of my back. I have never understood why I got it.
I've always been that black sheep of my family, and that has become even more evident now that I'm living on my own. That's never been a problem, and I'll never let it be one.
The year I turned eighteen tragedy struck my family. My dad was killed in a hit and run. I drove across the country so that I could help out my family, and make sure that they were alright. My mom was devastated and my sister was never home anymore. She was too busy with all her extra curriculars that she could barely get any sleep. With the house the way it was I stayed. I cleaned and cooked. I paid the bills and I made sure that there was always someone that my family could talk to. The funeral and wake came, and my mom kept saying how glad she was that I was around, how proud of me she was. Then about two days after my dad was put in the ground she pushed me out of the house yelling about how I was too much like him. How she didn't want me to be there with them. My mom said I was a copy of my dad, and she didn't want me or need me to be around.
The year I turned eighteen was the year that I packed up my bags and left home for good. It was the year that I had the most important thing taken from me.