Not a power ballad

The great thing about life is that it’s unpredictable. The bad thing about life is that it’s unpredictable.

About a year ago, I tried to write this novella for NANOWRIMO about heavy metal, depression, adoption and chaos. Unfortunately, the unpredictable happened and I stopped writing. Here are a few of the chapters I wrote (I’ll post more later on). It might or might not be based on true events.



When He died, my unborn soul was not sorry.

He died for me, did He not?


Chapter One

My Bloody Roots

Dear Biological Mother

It marvels me.

Everything about you does.

Though, I know nothing of you.

In my humble pie of opinions, I disagree with what you have done because I will always carry that excess of knowledge with me. To know that this is what I am:

Adopt v. 1 legally take (another’s child) and bring it up as one’s own.

  • Origin ʗ15 (earlier ME) as adoption): via Fr. from L. Adoptare, from ad- ‘to’ + optare ‘choose’.

This is what it should mean:

Choose v. (past chose; past part. chosen) 1 pick out as being the best of two or more alternatives.

  • Origin OE cȇosan, of Gmc origin.

This is what it REALLY means:

Different adj. 1 not the same as another or each other; unlike informal novel and unusual. 2 distinct; separate

And this is what I have become:

Rebellious adj. 1 showing a desire to rebel • engaged in rebellion. 2 difficult to control; unmanageable

  • Derivatives rebelliously Rebelliousness n.

Funny. Is it not?

These words are so powerful and their meaning even so.

So, that is all for tonight.

Your biological daughter,

Miss Rebellious



I was adopted into a nuclear family; Pa, Ma, older brother and a dog that I don’t remember the name of. I was six months old when I first met my family. I was tiny. I wasn’t the cutest baby girl but I was adored. There was a huge family party when I was taken home that day. All the Uncle, Aunties and new cousins came to celebrate my arrival. Looking through my baby photographs, I can tell everyone was thrilled with my presence especially the Granny who kept pinching my cheeks.

It’s been 16 years since that faithful day. Back then, I was a humble child who knew nothing of this world but things changed when I was five years old. Ma told me that I was ‘adopted’ and Pa explained to me what ‘adopted’ meant. It sounded like a normal word with a normal meaning. When I was eight years old, I told my best friend named Clarissa that I was adopted. Clarissa told me the next day, that her mother said she shouldn’t play with orphans. That’s when I realised that ‘adopted’ wasn’t a normal word with a normal meaning – it was a bad word with a bad meaning.

“Ma, why did you and Pa adopt me?”

Ma looked up at me from her sewing table. She stared at the cotton laid out in front of her and then glared at the tip of my nose.

“We wanted another child to love,” she said.

“So, why not have your own baby?”

“Well, we couldn’t have any more children after your brother due to medical reasons. Pa and I decided to adopt a baby.”

“So, whose baby photograph do you keep in your jewellery cupboard? Was that another baby that you were going to adopt?”

Ma looked shocked. “What were you doing in my jewellery cupboard?”

“I was looking for an earring clasp and I saw the photograph.”

“Well, you should have asked for my permission first!”

“Well…it was just a question.”

Ma said firmly, “That baby in that photograph was mine. He died from third degree burns when he was four years old.”

“Oh…” I said as I quickly scampered out of the room muttering incoherent words.


I can barely sleep. I keep thinking of Pa and Ma’s other biological child. I didn’t know Him. I did not even know about Him until now. I cannot bring myself to feel sad. All that goes through my head is: if it wasn’t for Him then I wouldn’t be here. When He died, my unborn soul was not sorry. He died for me, did He not?


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