The Childhood.

My life was a fairytale, of sorts. We had money, we had multiple cars, I got everything that I wanted, and I was extremely popular for it. The only different thing about my family was, that my parents were the class act drug dealers. The entire circuite from Cuba into the south border up to chicago, through michigan to canada and over to new york was ran in part by my mom and dad. We were loaded, I used bricks of marajauna to climb into their bed when I had nightmares. It was like a fairytale until I turned eleven.
That year, my grandpa died, but that was just before the summer really began.
In June, I was watching Angel, and the cops bust in the doors. There were so many, all had their guns drawn, most were pointed at my dog, who is a pitbull and very bias against intruders. Well, needless to say, the next day my sister and I had to go talk to the social workers. Of course, all of our lives it was “What happens in the house, stays between family.” I knew exactly what that meant. LIE. So apparently that’s what we did.
My dad was the hero, he took the fall for the entire thing, and even turned in people who were bringing 72 lbs of Cubas finest. Later on that summer, we weren’t allowed to leave our grandma’s house, or go back to our own, because these angry men were going to abduct my sister and I until my mom could pay back all of the money that my dad cost them.
Later that year, my parents divorced, and at 12 I began cutting myself shamelessly.
Well, the parent I live with is doing it again, and I can’t tell anyone. But I’m afraid everyday that the police will bust into my nice home, and take me away from my beautiful school, and I will fall from grace again. I know it’s dirty money, but I’m 17, and it’s the only way we pay the bills right now. Maybe I’m wrong, but my parent is doing all that is possible for me, and yet I resent both of us for the fact that it could tear us apart.