What the freak ever. Who the heck cares about me? Nobody, nobody. They hate me. I just beat the snot out of somebody, but no one cares, they never care and never will. Who was there for my kindergarden graduation? Nobody. How about my sixth grade graduation? Yep, you got it, nobody, well Lucy but not my real family, she don't even count.
My life has been like a tornado. Not the peaceful eye, I wasn't that lucky. My life has been like the raging winds that come from the tornado, the winds that tear down houses and rip families apart. Then the rain beats the family down so low that they have two options: Give up and let the love die or stay strong and stick with each other through the good and the bad.
Of course when I was three the tornado hit, I was given option one with no choice but to live with it. My Mother was supposedly beat by my Dad, she was a drunk, there wasn't a time that she didn't have a beer in her hand, except the nine months she was pregnant with me, I was told. Two months after my third birthday, the tables turned, my Father kicked my Mom and out, like literally kicked. My Mom tried to stay sober enough to keep a job, that didn't happen.
When I was five child services found out, my Mother got four years in jail, for child neglect, my Father got seven, for abuse and different degrees of battery, on many occasions. After that I was put in foster care. I have heard this from everyone, each version I get is different, all in all this is the cliff notes kind that I hear the most.
After eleven years, yes that means I am only fourteen, my life has turned out as close to the eye of the storm for it to be quiet but not enough into the eye for it to be calm. I escaped the dungeon, my nick name for the rat hole of a foster care, about two years ago, I was twelve. I suppose most teens keep themselves occupied by the Internet, their friends, or possibly school. Not me, as you will find I am not the normal little girly girl.
I don't have a fancy I-phone, on rare days, when I need a phone, I find a payphone. My spare time that teens would use for friends is filled by my job. Then there is school, I go to Belmont High School, it is very populated so I can stay hidden well, no one will ever notice me therefore I will never have friends, which means I don't get asked stupid questions about parents and that junk.
I live in an old abandoned warehouse, no adults, and no people telling me what to do. It is nice and cozy, I have an old couch I came upon at the retail store for ten bucks, all of my clothes come from there too. The little food I eat is from value menus and on special days, like my birthday, I allow myself a salad or a dessert. The fanciest place I have ever been would be this bakery that has these amazing donuts every once in a while I let myself get one, like a treat for making an A on a test.
My monthly salary is about two hundred dollars, in my opinion that is lower than the average minimum wage but it is plenty for me, I work six hours a day. My schedule of the week: Sunday- Work- 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Monday - Friday- School- 7:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. - Work- 4 p.m. to 10 p.m.
Most Saturdays are of me taking my money and half shopping, checking out deals at the retail shops. Getting a package of lunch meat, few drinks, and maybe some honey buns, to go in the mini fridge I got for forty bucks, last year. For me the set up is sweet, all of my teachers have a different idea of my parents a couple may know I don't have parents. I can forge both of my parent's fake names, which according to the fake documents I made, are my parent's real names. The teachers never have to see my parents for the parent teacher conference because I make straight A's. As you may notice even though I get A's in the class, I hate English.
Now I just beat up some guy, that looks to be in the early 40's, he tried to take my cash, everyone that lives on the streets knows there is one rule: Defend yourself. It is a lesson I learned early on in life. I saw the locket halfway out of his pocket, I grabbed it and ran.
A locket, no the locket, which by the stories is the one thing my Mother insisted on having when she left my Dad. It got stole from me last year but this is it, I know for a reason, on the back were the initials JJJ, Jillian Jenny Jones, my grandmother, I wonder what she would think of me and this. I met her twice I don't remember much, she smelled like apples, I know. People always said that she raised my Mom the correct way, the good way.
I have an opinion on all this, well my Dad, no, he is just crazy. My mother I know, she chose to live like this, after her first husband Mark died, she drank, and then got addicted, then never stopped. She wasn't capable of raising me because she didn't want to, she wanted to drink. She wanted to get so out there to the point where she couldn't feel the effects of a death, so she couldn't move on with her life, if she moved on she thought that she would forget Mark and she didn't want to forget. I learned that leaving something doesn't mean forgetting, they will always be part of your past, but you won't be in the past, of course these are just the stories my aunt used to tell me when she would come visit me on Saturdays at the dungeon, weather it is true or not, you can decide.
What the -, my place is trashed, everything. The couch is on its side, the sheets are off, the fridge is more than two feet from where it should be, upside down.
"Hi, Madison," the police officer said in the most dull, boring tone I have ever.
So is she really cought by the cops can you gues which direction the story is going in, you'll probably be suprised.