After skipping all the way to my house I finally come face to face with my front door.

Yes, I did indeed say skipping.  Some people may think it's strange for a seventeen year old girl to be skipping down the street, but I don't give a fuck.  It's fun and faster than walking.  I think it's good exercise too.

My brother Mateo told me to stop skipping once because he said I looked like an idiot.  I told him to fuck off.  Then I skipped away.

My house is small and shabby, but I think it's cute.  The exterior paint is starting to chip and the front door has a few scratches on it.  The house is a dull yellow color.

This house holds many memories.  Some of which I wish I could forget.  Except instead I try to focus on all the good memories I've made in this home.  I think of my mom and I playing dominoes together late at night on the dining room table.  I think of cuddling with my little sister because I got scared of a horror movie when I was thirteen. I think of all the wonderful food my mother makes in our kitchen.

One thing I've learned over the years is to not let the bad memories outweigh the good ones.  If you do they will eat you alive.  From a young age I learned that the good memories are the things that will make you smile in the morning, the bad ones will make you never want to get out bed.

The front door makes a creaking noise as I push it open.  I can hear my mom humming the tune to a Colombian song in our small kitchen.

My mother is a petite woman, with curly black hair and dark eyes.  She is gorgeous.  I don't understand how she is forty yet has no wrinkles.  I hope I inherit that trait.

Sneaking up behind her I wrap my arms around her shoulders and squeeze.  She jumps and hits me with the back of her hand.

"Hi ma!" Her face relaxes once she sees it's me, I offer her a warm smile.

"Dios mío, you're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days." She places her hand over her heart. (Translation: Oh my god.)

I smile brightly down at her as she continue speaking, "Well hello my little weirdo." She gives me a side hug and continues cooking. She is much shorter then me.  I'm 5'7 while she is 5'3. I get my height from the man who took part in making me.

The smell of delicious food makes my stomach grumble in hunger.

I slump my shoulders, "Are you almost done? I'm starving." My voice purposely comes out whiny and irritating which I know will annoy her.

I love being annoying, not too much to the point of the person wanting to kill me.  Except just enough to the point where they want to step on my foot, or pinch me.

There is no harm in irritating the people you love just a little.

"Cállate." I sigh and throw my head back at her famous words. (Translation: Shut up.)

"Fine." I respond, dragging the 'e'.  Another thing I do that I know my mother hates.

While strolling to my room my seven year old brother runs into me.

"Watch where you're going estupida." He looks up at me with a scowl on his face.

"You're the one who ran into me!" Mateo rolls his hazel eyes at me and walks off to the dining table.

Little pendejo.

Before I get to my room Camila walks into me, but not before shoving me into the wall. My shoulder and head make a thumping noise as I fall.

She laughs at me and starts running to the dining room.  She expects me to chase after her.

She is twelve and thinks she can push her seventeen year old sister into a wall and get away with it.

"You're gonna pay for that you little pain in the ass!" I'll wrestle her later and put her in a head lock so that she'll start crying.  That always seems to put her in check.

"Language!" My mother's voice echos through the house.  A shiver runs down my spine.

"Lo siento!" I yell back.  Camila sticks her stupid little tongue out at me.  I don't do this often, but I put my middle finger on display for her before heading into my room, closing the door gently behind me so it doesn't make a loud noise. (Translation: I'm sorry.)

Both my little siblings look just like my mother.  They both inherited her loose curly black hair and tan skin.

I inherited a lot of my genes from my father.

I hate it.

Walking over to my mirror I stare at the girl looking back at me.  I only see him.  I see an exact replica of him.

I inherited his caramel skin complexion, along with his straight black hair.  Little dark beauty marks spread across my face.  It looks like an artist painted a few little black dots everywhere.  He has the same ones.

One is above my eyebrow, another on the right side of my nose, two on my cheek, and the last under my left eye.

My lips are medium sized, and chapped.  Ew, I need to find my chapstick.

I also inherited his small dark brown almond eyes.  They almost look black.  Camila and Mateo were lucky enough to inherit mom's gorgeous hazel eyes that almost look green.

I force myself to tear my gaze away from the mirror.  Every time I look into a mirror I don't see me.  I see him.  Which is why I usually avoid looking at my reflection at all cost.  Except every once in a while I can't help but look at myself, to see how I look.

The person I see in the mirror is so different from who I actually am.  I'm not my dad.  I would never be like him.

Usually I try to look on the bright side of everything.

Except when it comes to him, there is no bright side.  There is no form of light that could come cascading down, highlighting a good part of him, because there is no good part to him.  At least from what I've seen for my entire life.

I draw imaginary shapes on the flowery blanket that is neatly done on top of my bed.  The walls of the room are a cream white color, the paint is chipping.  The ceiling is a also cream white, with a few cracks. 

My room is filled with several piles of books.  One pile is on the night stand next to my bed.  Another is on my dresser.  Two more are on the floor next to my door.  They're everywhere.

Random little knick knacks also take up space, along with random trays of jewelry.  My ugly drawings fill the room's walls as well.

Mom's voice breaks my observations, "Luna come get your food!" Her voice is muffled due to my bedroom door being closed.

Food?

I jump up immediately and swing open the door, running to the dining table.

On the table sits a huge bowl of rice with beans.  On the plate next to it holds a bunch of tostones and sweet plantain.  On the tray to the right of the bowl of rice sits chicken.

My mouth is watering.  A sea of saliva is developing in my mouth.

Taking a seat at the table, I quickly dive in.  I grab a bunch of rice and several pieces of tostones, as well as several pieces of chicken.

My mother and siblings talk as I focus only on the food.  It's the most important thing to me right now.  The only thing I can see and hear is food at the moment. 

I'm a very dramatic person.

After scarfing down a shit ton of food I lean back in my chair and smile to myself.

Damn that tasted good.  As I rub my stomach in contentment, I hear the front door creak open.

My whole body stiffens. The hand that was rubbing my stomach slips away to the side of the chair, it now grips the wooden edge to my seat, hard. My knuckles are probably white right now.

My dad walks in, wearing his work clothes.  He doesn't say anything to us as he takes a seat in the living room and turns on the TV.

Mom quickly paints on a false expression of happiness and prepares a plate to bring to him on the sofa.

Camila and Mateo are talking lowly amongst each other.

My father pays no attention to us.  He doesn't even thank my mother for preparing a plate of food for him.

Getting up, I walk over to my mom.

I wrap my arms around her and she hugs me back.

"Buenas noches.  Te quiero mucho." She leans back and kisses me on the cheek. (Translation: Goodnight. Love you.)

"Love you too daughter." Her Spanish accent seeps through all her words.

Once she leaves the room my dad looks at me, I look back at him, making no effort to talk.

"You look like a whore in those shorts." He scoffs. He always does this.  He waits for mom to leave the room before insulting me in every way shape and form.

My face stays stone cold.  I stiffly turn around and walk towards my room.

Before heading down the hallway I see my mom, she is looking at me with an expression of endearment.

I give her a tight lipped smile and walk back to my room quickly, closing the door as quietly as I can.

I lean against the closed door and let my eyelids flutter shut, taking in a few deep breaths.

And just like that, my day has been tinted.