Kacey is my name and I'm only 17. I'm super thin, 5'6, and have a pixie cut that is a dark purple blended into dark red at the tips. My eyeliner is thick black that's moved into a wing at a perfect slant. My lips are red, but not too dark or light. My outfit consists of black skinny jeans or black cut off shorts and a cami either with or without a plaid flannel to go with it. I have a pair of black vans that are about as worn out as a piece of paper being crumpled into a ball and flattened out 50 times. My teeth are perfectly straight and very white. One of my best qualities, according to my slut of a mom.

I hate to say that about my own birth giver, but I mean, it's true. She is a waitress at our small county's famous diner and she wears these tight dresses that show every last curve on her. I don't understand how she breathes or how her outfit doesn't rip when she bends. Her dresses show everything when she stoops down or bends over. She uses her slutty ways, but beautiful shape, to her advantage for extra tips. She has to or we would not survive.

She has seven kids with four different men, (Katie, Alice, and Rosalie have the same dad. Ryan and I each have a different dad. Tom and Matt have the same dad.), and that's another reason she deserves to be called a slut. Sometimes, I think, after work she goes out, drinks, and sells her body to men to make a little extra money because every now and then, she has different men drop her off late at night.

My final dad is gone. Final dad as in Katie's, Alice's, and Rosalie's dad. Gone as in he's done with us. He left us to fend for ourselves because he didn't feel like holding us up anymore. He practically paid for everything. All four of my little siblings are too young to work, well, to get paid for it, at least.

There is Katie, who is six and believes anyone and is super gullible, which is an awful trait I have to break her from. It almost got her killed, because some creeper in a van came by two years ago and asked her if she wanted candy, so she almost got into the van to "get some candy". Luckily for us, my older brother, Tom, had shot his 22 at the van's backdoors, so it sped off right before Katie had a chance to climb on in.

Next up is Alice. She is eight. In my opinion, she is a sneaky little kid. I have this little journal that I write stuff in when I'm stressed. I hide it in a secret spot in the woods. It is impossible to find unless you're me. You have to travel so far to get to it.

You see, in our woods there are these old trails from many years ago with intersections at every quarter mile. I know every single turn like the back of my hand. I could get there with my eyes closed. Take a right, keep straight, right, left, then the path ends with bushes and trees so close together you'd think it's impossible to get through. But once you get past 15-20 feet of that mess, it opens to a tunnel that's completely surrounded by bushes, vines, and tree branches. It's almost three feet wide and four feet tall. That tunnel stretches for miles after miles of dark forest. But occasionally, you find a perfect climbing tree that has huge branches that you can stretch out on for a while.

I've been going on that path for years, and as you can tell it's very hard to get to. Except, apparently not to Alice. That kid was quiet enough for me to not even notice she was following me every night. Not once did I ever catch her. Until she let something slip.
I write jokes in my journal when I think they're funny and I only ever put them in my journal, I never say them because I don't like to draw attention to myself. Alice had said one of those jokes to Matt, our oldest brother, and he busted out laughing. It was easy to tell she didn't come up with it on her own due to the fact she had a hard time pronouncing some words in the joke, although he was impressed she came up with that. I wasn't pissed at the fact that she stole the glory of my joke, I was pissed that she went through my journal. I was pissed that she followed me to my secret spot. Where I found comfort from the tree branches hugging me close and the leaves keeping me warm and hidden from reality. Where I thought only I could know the smell of fresh berries. Where I thought only I could know the sound of the river flowing only a few hundred feet from the tunnel. I thought that was my spot and only my spot.

Alice, my sneaky little sister, invaded my privacy and took my only self-joy away that day. And I made sure I wrote that in my journal. And I have prayed to God every night that she will come across it then apologize to me about reading it, but she hasn't yet. It sounds rather petty, but something like this is different when you're practically poor.

In my favorite tree to lay out on in the tunnel, there is a small hole that my journal lies in. My journal is wrapped up in my best waterproof jacket and my pen hides in the dirt a couple inches below the ground's surface. I pray to God that nobody finds and reads it, but I guess God doesn't like to answer every prayer.

My other little sister is Rosalie. There's not much to her. She is 7, quiet, smart, and likes to keep to herself. She's like me in ways. In the ways of quiet, smart, and keeping to herself. Okay, okay, okay. So, she's a lot like me. Practically exactly like me. I mean, we do share a room together, along with Katie and Alice. But it's not like we bond a lot, so I don't know how she's really like me. I guess she just watches closely because I talk to Tom the most.

Tom is 23. He is the 'protector' of all of us, but he's not the oldest. He pretty much replaced Dad when he left. He makes sure we all have plenty of food, whether he's killing it, buying it, or even stealing it if he has to, but only I know about that last resort.

But if anyone has to steal anything, I vote Alice, the sneaky little brat that stole my privacy. I might hate her for that, but gosh durn! That child is good! Plus she's small, so she can get through tight places. But like I said, Tom is practically our Dad. I'm surprised mom doesn't make us call him Dad or something, since that's probably who Katie and possibly Alice and Rosalie think he is anyways.

The oldest, younger sibling is Ryan. He is 12. I don't really know what to describe him as. Maybe the wild card or Mr. Variety. He is like all of us, really. He's gullible, kinda sneaky, quiet at times, very smart, funny, and he works really hard, just like Matt.

Matt is the oldest of us all at twenty four. My mom was seventeen when she had him. And nineteen when she had Tom. I guess it was too much to handle because she didn't have me for another seven years later. I don't think he works really hard because he wants to or anything, but because he is used to it. When he was Katie's age, he was already working twelve hour shifts in the back of the restaurant cleaning dishes, but not getting paid anything, while Mom was waiting on customers.

Matt and Tom were raised up pretty rough. They didn't have a normal childhood. Anyone in this Sullivan family doesn't have a normal childhood. We don't take family vacations. We don't go out to eat at fancy restaurants. We don't have new, fancy clothes or toys like other children. We don't get to take a bath every night. We don't go to school to get a free education. We are home schooled by our mother, when she has time. Occasionally, Matt or Tom will teach us something like the states and their capitals or something easier for the young ones like the alphabet and simple math. But that hardly ever happens.

In the Sullivan family, you learn to do things differently. You learn to adapt, no matter the situation.