The Chapter Before.
Hear my sob story or not. I’m still going to ramble.
I know I’m not the best person to be talking about being poor. Because if I had to hide all my money under my bed – the mattress would touch the ceiling. But that was yesterday, when I was rotting rich, pampered and spoiled and had everything I want so badly now. That was yesterday – a beautiful day when I was still me. However the night brings out uglier things than werewolves and witches, spirits and trolls – instead in the comfort of it’s darkness lurk men with knives and women with bodies and daddy’s like mine holed up in the most imperceptible places gambling away their lives .. and sometimes lives of others too.
My name is Haley. But if you read the name plate of my bedroom door, it’ll say ‘Hale.’ The letters were made of platinum – you can understand it’s value. You can also understand why the ‘y’ isn’t there anymore. My bedroom fulfills the purpose of it’s name. It contains only a bed now. and the pile of clothes in one corner of the room, from which I have to return my customized designer outfits.
I know what you all are thinking – What do I know about being poor?
There are hundreds, no, thousands and more, living in this condition everyday. Every single day, they have to make choices, and decisions, and chose from the little they have, becoming more insufficient than they already are.
I never had to go through any of this. I got what I wanted when I just whispered about it. I pointed to something and it was mine! Even my inner wear was costlier than the three meals I had in a day. I did not need friends, I had just one – my credit card. Money gave me happiness. Because I could have anything at the clap of my hand.
And just like that, since we have everything, we also have problems. I have the constant fear that my dad’s company would shut down, (like it did when it lost it all at a gamble) or we’d be busted by the income tax people, or some stupidity like that. But in real, I’m scared of being exposed without my money. Not because I cannot live in t-shirts that have holes in it and sweat pants – but because with out my extravagance people will know the real me and they can hurt me a lot more.
I know this because I read the newspapers, I’m not dumb, I see people envy me, make fun of me, call me names, all because I happen to be a millionaire’s daughter. I’ve been played with and used – for my money. For making money out of me. I’ve felt the sting of people staring at me, their unreasonable anger burning my skin, protection no expensive moisturizer can provide. I hear the whispers, and more so, the shouting, telling the world how wicked I am.
Maybe, that’s why, money gives me happiness.
But everyone deserves to change, don’t they?
I’m not a bad person. I’m nothing they know about. And given a chance, you’d love to laugh with me. Maybe I’m stupid for comparing myself to a book. But right now, if I give up, drink and smoke and take drugs and end up on page six of the news paper titled ‘Scandalous death of the daughter of a debt-ridden millionaire,’ I’m exploiting who I can really be.
Everyone’s got a problem. Maybe not as petty as mine, of being reduced to a value of a waitress. But they have.
But just because the world seems bad and there’s no solution, you cannot give up forever.
That’s cowardly, and an insult to yourself. And you don’t know what tomorrow offers you?
It can be a slap in the face or an opportunity to rise.
It’s like the chapter before the awesome fight-off between the hero and the villain.
And you know what? The Hero always wins.
But if don’t wait to read, how will you ever know?