Devil's book

I don't remember much of my childhood. Living in the city was good. California has been famous for a variety of things. It's been fun to go there and explore those things with my dad.

I loved spending time with my father. He used to take me to different places. I explored various sites and other places with him. Caves were the best part. I don't remember when it started, but the last I could remember was the sight of those caves, and my hands were full of blood. To this day, I couldn't discover which cave it was, or whether it was really blood on my hands or something else.

I can't remember which class I was in, but I was so small I couldn't remember anything else. After that, time passed in intervals, and I couldn't remember what had happened. The first time I noticed was in 8th standard. I was busy studying when the lecture passed suddenly; my notes were not completed, and others had done them. I couldn't get hold of what was happening.

Eventually, events passed swiftly. I couldn't remember anything. In the process of acknowledging what was happening, I made a mistake by telling everyone about it. This news spread like wildfire among all the students. And now I was the one who got blamed for every inconvenience happening in class. They took advantage of me. All of them started to show their faithlessness. There was nothing I could remember, only the giggling of those students. It annoyed me.

The situation got worse when the blame for their personal matters started coming to me, too.

School was constantly giving me warnings not to do these things again, but those blames on me made my situation worse. In the middle of my 11th grade, school got fed up with me and decided to transfer me to another branch.

It was far; they suggested two branches that accepted my transfer: one was in Washington and the other in Florida. I calculated the distance from both states and chose to go to the branch in Washington. Before that, for one week I constantly talked with teachers and submitted petitions to the school, but all were in vain.

It was a great hustle to transfer from California to Washington. It took time, but everything was managed. My parents did not want to come with me; in fact, they didn't care about me.

They showed no sympathy towards my situation. I found a place to live on my own, and finally, after packing all my stuff, it was the day of moving. As I was loading my stuff and came to pick my last box.

My mom came up to me. I hoped that maybe she would show a little sorrow, but she smirked and whispered in my ear, " Bubblegum, you are not what you think you are!"

These phrases felt contradictory; is she supporting me, or is she meaning something else?