Train Man, Begining

I hear the storm roll over the house like an airplane, touching the roof gently before slowly passing by. Even with the worst of it gone, however, it is still raining very hard. Well, I say the worst of it, but I really do enjoy the rain, and the dark that comes with it. Mother is in the den, playing the piano softly, even though she can only play one song that I don’t recognize from anywhere else. Father is gone again, but I don’t mind, I have never minded. I have a puzzle in my room, laid out on the floor on a big ripped up piece of cardboard, it’s of a sunset, and I am working diligently on the ocean it is setting behind. It is hard because all of the pieces look exactly the same, and you have to squint hard to notice that they are very different. I can barely see as it is, because I don’t want to turn on the lamp. It’s so much nicer when it is dark that I couldn’t stand to ruin it with artificial light. I decide it is no use, and I slide the piece of cardboard delicately under the bed, so that it is no longer visible. Standing up, I crawl into my bed, as the piano music stops from downstairs. Mother is coming up, I can tell because I hear her nylons rub together in between her legs, where most of the runs are. She stands outside my door for a second before opening it, as though preparing herself for me. She only opens it a crack, and leans her head in, resting it against the frame. She is very pale, my mother, with crooked, but perfectly white teeth. She has blue eyes, and blond hair that is curly, but somewhat wilted. She wears too much lip liner, but otherwise her face is fairly pleasant. I know she is not my mother, but it doesn’t matter to me, I am glad she is not. I am clearly black, and though she told me that I just got my fathers skin, I know it’s not the truth. She also knows I don’t believe her, and I think its silly that she lies anyways, just because it seems the right thing to do.
“Honey,” she says, “I am going out with the girls.” This, I know, is code for she has a date. “Do you need dinner or something?”
I sigh, “I can fix it myself.” Even though I am only 13, I am a fabulous cook, though I am the only one that knows.
She smiles, “You do that now, and get some sleep tonight, we’ll go to church tomorrow.” I wonder why she bothers; it won’t make her any less of a whore. But I smile anyways.