At the beginning of my life, thinking back to my very first memory, it was clear to me that I was not wanted.
This knowledge was destined to follow me for the rest of my life.
I sighed and threw my notebook across the room. I wasn't really angry, just annoyed. Those first two sentences sound like I'm some sort of whiney, no-one-loves-me moron. What I'm supposed to be doing is writing out my life story for my therapist. She is a damn idiot.
And here I am, in my crappy hotel room, which has rather suspicious looking stains on the floor. I don't know why I'm here. It's nicer than my usual dwellings, but whatever. It feels wrong. I feel boxed in, caged in.
I wrap my arms around my chest. My hands are freezing. I shove them into my armpits. After a moment I sigh again and crawl into bed, pulling the blankets around me. I turn out the light, then I just lie there and stare at the ceiling, lights play across it, cars pass outside. I sort of want to cry. But I don't. I just turn onto my side and go to sleep.
I am woken by a pounding on the door. Someone really wants to see me, apparently. I put the pillow over my head and try to ignore them, but the pounding only gets louder. I swear and fling the pillow off my head. And I stomped as loud as I could over to the door. I want them to understand my anger at being woken up by this.
I peer through the peephole. There is an extremely tall guy out there. The peephole is at eye level for me, and I'm 5'8". This guy's chest is at the peephole level. I don't know who he is.
He pounds on the door again. "What do you want?" I shout through the door, I know enough not to crack open the door and ask that way. Even with the chain on, you never know who might try and get through that door. You can stick a gun, a knife, who knows what through the crack created by a door, even with the chain still on.
"Let me in, Mrs. Lackey sent me down here." Mrs. Lackey is my therapist. I don't like her. She irritates me and tries to 'make me better' and 'build my character'. My character is fine, thanks. My 'mom' thinks I need therapy because of all the crap I've apparently been through. I put 'mom' in quotes on account of her being not actually my mom. 'Mom' is just my guardian person. I'm technically a ward of the state, 'mom' is my social worker or whatever. I have no idea where my actual parents are, and I really don't care. They've never been there for me, not since they ditched me when I was four. Well, my real mom ditched me when I was six. I can vaguely remember her. A lot of screaming. Hitting and what have you. Daddy dearest ran off before I was born, as far as I know.
I crack the door open, carefully angling my body away from the opening, behind the door, and peek through the crack. The guy eyes my hair. Probably because it is pink. And probably really, really fluffy right now. That's what happens when I don't do anything to it in the morning, it gets extremely fluffy. Like, it looks almost like I have a freaking piece of cotton candy stuck to my scalp.
"Are you going to let me in, Pinky?" Mr. Tall asks, I scowl at him.
"Fine, whatever." I say, and close the door in his face so I can undo the chain. I open the door back up, and Mr. Tall saunters in.
He smirks at me. I neglected to put on pants or shirt before getting the door. "Nice undies."
I redouble my glare. C'mon, when do the daggers start literally shooting from my eyes. Seriously, I just met this guy, and he makes me want to stab him in the throat. With eye daggers. And my boxer briefs aren't that bad…okay, so they do have pandas on them. So what.
"Shut up. What do you want, anyways?" I ask, picking up a pair of my jeans and wiggling into them. They happen to be purple. I got them at a thrift store and didn't have a lot of choices! And I like them, okay?
Mr. Tall raises his eyebrows as I zip up my fly. "What?"
"Nothing. Lackey wants you to come down to the office right away." He says, fiddling with his belt loop.
"Why the frick didn't she just call me?"
"I don't know. The lady is nuts. I didn't want to come down here anymore than you wanted me to come down here." Mr. Tall says, then sticks out a hand. "I'm Zip."
I shake his hand. "I'm Gabe."
"Well, Gabe, get a shirt on. Lackey will be pissy if I don't get you down there soon." Zip says. I pick a shirt up off my floor and throw it on, it happens to be black. Thankfully. Any other colors would probably make me look like a freaking rainbow. Pink hair, purple pants, black shirt. And my super heavy, thick rubber soled, steel toed combat boots. Okay. Ready to go.
I follow Zip out the door, pulling the door shut behind me and pocketing the key. I nearly trip over a passed out, greasy haired druggie sprawled in the hall. Wasn't really paying attention. Zip leads me to a spiffy motorcycle, hands me a helmet, puts on his own, and then climbs on. He motions for me to get on behind him, so I do. I wrap my arms snugly around his waist. I just met him, sure, but I also would prefer not to get flung off the back of a motorcycle. Obviously.
Zip revs the bike, and pulls out into the street. Lackey's office is in a super posh part of town, over towards the rich people McMansions and the fancy-schmancy gated communities where no black, brown, or pink haired Japanese people are allowed.
Okay, so maybe I'm a little bitter. I didn't get dealt the hand of privilege. Shit, I didn't even get dealt the hand of comfortably middle class. Or lower middle class. Or even middle lower class. I got stuck with the hand of poverty, abusive mothers, drugs, and prostitution. Nice, right?
Zip, well, zips around a corner and pulls up to Lackey's offices. He parks his bike by the curb and I hop off.