Hello to anyone kind (or bored) enough to be reading this :D

I started this to help me get over a current bout of writer's block so my other multi-chapter fics won't suffer from lacking creativity. I've had this idea in my head for a while already and got quite far with the rough outline, so hopefully it turns out nicely :D

Thanks again for reading, and drop me a review when you're done :)

Chapter one – An introduction to the shit hole that is my life

A shaft of early morning sunshine filters through the crack in my drawn curtains and seeps onto my bed, where I lie spread-eagled under the covers.

I open my eyes slowly and stare at the chipping ceiling above me.

I sigh as my alarm clock starts beeping, late as always, since the timer's broken. I check the time. It's 7:15. I'll be late for my interview if I don't get up now.

Deciding that it would be best to make a good impression on my sixth high school interview of the week, I drag myself out of bed and set about getting dressed. Combing hair, brushing teeth, pulling on some ragged assortment of clothes that vaguely seem to go together, and I'm done.

I step infront of the cracked mirror behind my door and look at my distorted reflection.

Long brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, sleep-clogged green eyes, a pair of skinny jeans and a sleeveless top, as well as a pair of brown hiking boots that I had to beg my foster-mom for.

I grab a small satchel from the corner on my way out and slide down that banister to the living room.

"Jamey!" my mother shouts from her chair in the kitchen. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? We just polished them yesterday!"

"Well, I'm re-polishing them for you!" I shout back, heading outside.

My mom has this idea in her head that no one has the time to sit down and have breakfast in the kitchen but her. Even my dad can't drink his coffee in there - he has to take it in a thermal flask to work.

Not that I want to stay home for a minute more than is necessary. Let's just say that my parent's aren't the most gentle of people when it comes to dealing with kids.

I slam the door shut behind me and continue waking down the garden path, out the front gate and onto the sidewalk.

A few cars drive by, but other than that the road is completely deserted. My boots make no sound on the concrete flagstones as I walk along the road, looking down at the report card I hold in my hands. I had dug it out of my bag and was now wondering if my grades were high enough for this school to accept me. Once again, I say this – this is my sixth high school interview this week.

It wasn't as though I had been to blame for failing all of the previous interviews. It had been my 'parents' fault. It's almost as if they don't want me to go to school at all. I mentally recap all my past failed interviews with a shudder.

Interview #1- mom slaps principal for no apparent reason.

Interview #2- dad punches principal for no apparent reason.

Interview #3- mom and dad hurl insults at the principal's assistant for not letting them use the staff coffee machine.

Interview #4- I went to this one on my own, but mom showed up and dragged me out of the principal's office in the middle of my interview, mumbling on about how it was my grandmother's funeral or some shit like that. I don't even have a grandmother.

Interview #5- all was going well until dad turned up drunk and started chasing teachers around while brandishing a rather large and heavy-looking plank of wood. He then turned on the principal and I can tell you – it didn't end well. And then when he decided to bat me around a little, I headed for the hills, like I always do.

Shaking myself out of my unpleasant reverie, I jog a little way down the road and make sure my parent's aren't following me or something. They don't even know which school I'm going to for my interview.

I made sure of that well beforehand.

The high school I have my interview with is about three blocks from my house. It's called Cecillian Rogue High School for the Underprivileged. Not that I'm underprivileged or anything. It's just that this was the only school that hadn't heard of my demented parents and would give me a fighting chance of improving my education. I really don't want to go there, but what choice do I have?

I need to make it into the tenth grade before I turn seventeen.

I come up to the rusted iron school gates. A bell rings somewhere, and suddenly the empty quad becomes a hive of activity. Great. Just what I need to boost my self-esteem.

I sigh and dig my hands deeper into my pockets. Stepping through the faded blue gates, I walk quickly past the bustling crowds and make a beeline for the main office. It's this small open-plan building, with a few comfy-looking leather armchairs sitting around a coffee table just infront of the secretary's desk. I sidle up to the counter and tap politely on the glass separating the main desk from the rest of the room.

The receptionist, a young thing of barely twenty years old, looks up at me with a bored expression. She blows a gum bubble and pops it before saying, "What?"

"I'm here for my interview with Mr. Valkner," I reply, readjusting the strap of my shoulder bag to a more comfortable position where it isn't biting into my shoulder.

She looks down at her computer screen and then back up again before motioning to one of the chairs with a slight nod of her head.

"I'll let him know you're here."

I nod my head and sit down in one of the brown chairs. The leather and cushioning is so soft that I almost sink right into the armchair. In the end, I perch on the edge of the seat to avoid being swallowed alive.

I wait a further hour and a half before the principal's door opens on the other side of the room and Mr Valkner steps out, his balding head shining in the bright fluorescent lights.

He's half-hidden by a large pot plant right next to the door and I have to stretch up on tiptoe just to catch a glimpse of him. He motions me in and I step into his office. He offers me a seat infront of his polished oak desk, smiling warmly. There are about a million tiny butterflies flitting around in my stomach at that moment. I sink shakily into the wooden-backed chair and slide my fourth-term seventh grade report across the table to him as he sits down.

He takes it and without a word, starts reading it, still smiling. His expression remains carefully blank, not giving a thing away. I gulp down the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. This is my last shot. It's all or nothing now.

Mr Valkner looks up from my report, his warm smile now looking pretty fake.

"Your results are above average for your age group, Ms…?" he begins, forgetting my name.

"Stuart," I reply. "Jamey Stuart."

"Right."

After he explains what subjects he wants me to improve before I can start here, he goes on to tell me exactly how the school system works.

"What I can do for you," he says, clasping his hands together on his desk while mine writhe restlessly on my lap, "is let you spend a day here with the students, just so that you can get the feel of what a school day here is like. I know some kids who would just love to show you around."

Yeah, I think. And I'm sure they wouldn't mind using me as their midday snack, while they're at it.

"That would be a start," I reply uncertainly.

Mr Valkner misinterprets my uncertainty for fear. "I could even give you a spare uniform, if you like."

"Sure," I shrug and nod my head. "When should I come?"

"How about tomorrow?" he suggests, standing up from his chair and escorting me out the room. "We have an assembly, anyway, and I think it would be good for you to see how the most important weekly tradition in the school works so that you're at least a little prepared for when you actually start."

"Sounds good," I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and he shuts the door behind me.

I walk briskly out of the cool air-conditioned office and into the humid mid-morning sunshine, keen to be away from the school before my parents somehow manage to stumble upon me. I literally jog out the school gates to escape the prying stares of the few students still milling around.

I run back to my house and notice that my mom's car is gone. She must be shopping. I slip through the front door, unnoticed by my father who is sleeping in the living room. My parents think I've gone for a quick jogging session.

I leap up the stairs to my bedroom and throw on a pair of jogging shorts, sneakers and a different sleeveless shirt.

Then, I hear the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and the front door open downstairs. My heart plummets when I realize it must be my mother.

I dive for my window as she comes up the stairs. Just as she reaches the landing, I'm already shimmying down the drain pipe and running through the back garden, jumping over the short fence and jogging to the end of the block.

I live to run. Ever since I can remember, running has been my life. It's either running from the cops, crooks, or some drunk with a gun. Sometimes an angry storeowner is thrown into the mix.

I've been running myself out of trouble ever since I started school. You could say that I've always been a bit of a troublemaker. A bit more that that, actually.

I once set fire to a teacher's car, flooded another teacher's classroom with a hosepipe after sealing all the windows and doors with Blutac, and slashed the tyres on a principal's car after she expelled me for apparently no reason. A lot of things seem to happen to me for no reason.

I'm a definite troublemaker.

Some people would say that I'm like this because of the tense situation at home and I'm just taking my frustration out on the people at school. I've never had that many friends, so that could be true.

I've been running from dangerous situations at home since I was little, too. I was adopted when I was eight and a half, but I can still remember what my life was like before my new home.

I did everything you would consider bad.

I robbed, I stole, and I killed, all to stay alive.

A fleeting memory comes to mind. It shows me standing in a torn-up room, a million feathers cascading around my head. On a bed infront of me lies a body, a pillow on its head with a single bullet hole through the center. The man's blood stains the pure white fabric. He's been killed, and I'm the one holding the gun at only eight years old.

Not that my life has gotten any better since the adoption.

I turn the corner and keep running until I come to an old intersection, pushing the memory to the back of my mind. A faded four-poster sign stands erect on a small traffic circle in the middle of the road. I turn right and keep jogging until I end up in the park. I take the running trail, through the leafy trees and long grass. I usually take this time to reflect on whatever it is that I need to think about.

But today, my mind is blank. I think I just want to forget about everything, if even for a little while.

I do another two laps around my block and I end up back at my front gate. I seem to have worked up a convincing sweat pattern to assure my parents I had actually been jogging. I close the rusty gate behind me, trying to slow my erratic breathing down to a normal rhythm. The squeaking and squealing of the gate is sure to alert my mother to my presence.

"How was the jog?" her voice floats through the entrance hall as soon as I'm through the door.

"It's just exercise, mom. There isn't really a scale as to how good or bad it can go," I reply as I jog back up the stairs for the second time that morning, hoping to confuse her to the extent that she won't come up and question me further.

I close my bedroom door behind me and slip out of my dirty clothes and into the same ones I had worn for my interview, minus any shoes.

I never stay in my jogging clothes for too long - staying dirty kills me. That's probably a side effect from living off the streets for so long. The dirt can get so bad that you can actually switch nationalities, if you know which one to go for.

I turn on the battered radio and the music starts pouring out of the fizzling speakers. My favourite rock band is playing.

.

I turn the radio louder and sit down heavily on my threadbare chair infront of my even wonkier desk. I look around my room. I think back to what I was pondering about on my jog. Life hasn't really gotten any better for me since I was adopted. Sure, I have a place to sleep now and regular meals, but that's about it.

My room is the bare minimum of living standards. The walls are painted, the floor laminated, but that's where the luxuries stop. My bed is a thin mattress on the floor with no base. My radio is something I salvaged from the dump down the road. My desk is falling apart and is literally being held together with sticky tape and Blutac. The chair I'm sitting on creaks and leans dangerously to one side. I adjust my weight so that I end up sitting on the edge of the other side so as not to overbalance the dilapidated piece of furniture.

I have a couple of tattered blankets covering my bed. My pillows look and feel like they're filled with rocks. A couple of torn posters – the only shred of my identity in the room – hang limply from the wooden skirting running around the top of the room, about three feet away from the ceiling. My walls are painted a sickly shade of pea-green. A small window is to the left of the room, opposite my door, covered with ratty old curtains. My life has definitely not improved very much.

Before I was adopted, I lived on the streets, sleeping in thick concrete sewage pipes waiting to be lowered into the ground and keeping warm with other street urchins next to withering fires in abandoned parking lots and ruined buildings.

The police caught me one day after I was bust shoplifting a handful of sweets and shipped me off to an orphanage on the edge of town.

I stayed there for six months before my current parents (or 'owners' I should say) adopted me for such a meagre amount of money that it was like the agency just couldn't wait to get rid of me.

Then I came to live here. My new parents and their families constantly physically and mentally abused me, but it seems to have died down a little now.

My hand instinctively creeps up to my shoulder, which my 'dad' almost broke when I was ten. It still hurts a little because they only took me to a doctor when I wouldn't stop crying and the teachers at school started to get suspicious. I went to a below-average school, called Reinara Heights. I was also bullied there, and that's when I honed my ability to use a gun with deadly accuracy. It wasn't only then that I learned how to use a gun. When I was still living on the streets, my 'older sister' taught me. She looked after me.

Her name was Revy, and she taught me all I know. But when I got adopted, I couldn't see her again for years, until I went looking for her when I was twelve. I found her and we tried to stay in contact, but my parents forbid me from going out at night, so I haven't seen her for about five or six months.

I remember Revy well. I looked up to her and copied almost everything she did. She was seven years older that me and knew a lot more about how to use guns and live alone on the streets than I did.

She had these amazing eyes, which had this look in them that suggested that she had seen too much for her years. There was another, harder look in her eyes, too. One that told everyone she was a born killer, a person who could just turn off and massacre crowds of people with just a flick of her wrist and an itchy trigger finger. She was dangerous. She had a love for violence, and always went looking for a fight. It was strange that she could be so clear-minded when faced with danger.

But, even when she needed a clear head, she would let her temper get the better of her. But, she was my big sis, and she always stuck up for me, no matter what. When I turned seven, she stole a pair of guns just for me.

"A small birthday present," she called them, even though neither of us actually knew when my actual birthday was.

They were a pair of twin Berretta M92's, stainless steel with an ivory grip. They had very slight recoil and a built in silencer, so it was obvious that they had been modified and lightened. I had no idea where had had got them from, but I was really grateful.

After three months, I could shoot a can straight through the center from ten paces away. After six, I could shoot a can through the middle and then go on to shoot it in half again while it was soaring through the air. A couple of weeks after that, I could shoot with both guns simultaneously.

I made my first kill when I was seven and a half – a drunken homeless guy who wanted to beat me up. After that, I didn't hesitate to shoot anyone who wanted to hurt me, even the cops. Especially the cops.

Where I grew up, the cops wouldn't think twice about beating the crap out of you for no reason at all, especially little street urchins like me. I gave up all belief that there were at least some good cops on that day when I came running out an alley, screaming for help after I saw someone I knew get shot in a hit and run.

As soon as they saw me, the first cop kicked me down and the rest beat me to within an inch of my life. It was Revy who found me later on, bleeding from the nose and mouth, too weak to even lift my head off the ground, and nursed me back to health for a week. She told me the same thing had happened to her a while back.

I remember those years. I'll always remember her eyes, oddly-coloured hair, and her never-ending energy.

She was always working out at the gym, dodging the guards to sneak inside. She was always finding ways to find food for the four of us in our small group, and just being the mother and sister to all of us.

The last I heard, she was working for a 'courier company' called Black Lagoon. By 'courier', I mean modern day pirate. They transport illegal packages from point A to point B from right under the authorities noses, and they get paid big bucks for it. Although, they never seem to have enough money to get by…

But, that's just what I've heard…

Suddenly, there's a sharp rapping on my door. It startles me, a rude awakening from my memories of seemingly happier, easier times gone by.

My foster mother's voice drifts through the door.

"Your father wants to see you downstairs. Now."

There are brief periods in time when the people who insist on being called my foster parents actually speak civilly to me, like when I had come home from my jog earlier. Now is not one of those times.

Slowly, I get up from my chair, a strong sense of foreboding settling like a bowling ball in the pit of my stomach. Something in her voice suggests that this meeting is going to be anything but pleasant.

I open my door and peer outside to make sure no fists will come flying at me from around the corner or something. My mother has already gone. I step out and slowly walk down the creaky stairs to the living room. The door to the lounge is underneath the staircase.

Inside, my 'father' sits in one of the red-upholstered armchairs with a face like thunder. I swallow down a lump of dread in my throat and hesitantly step inside. He turns to look at me, murder in his beady black eyes.

My heart literally skips a beat when my 'mother' closes the door behind me.

"Sit down."

My father nods to another chair opposite him. My mother stands between the door and me, blocking my only escape route if things get out of hand.

I sit down, perching on the edge of the seat, my hands clasped in a ball in my lap.

My stomach has worked itself up into a million knots. I know when I'm about to get my ass handed to me on a silver platter – my mother blocks any way out and my father looks like he could kill me with his bare hands.

"So," the man infront of me begins, crossing his legs. "Is there something you would like to tell me, Jamey?"

"Not really," I reply quietly, knowing that I'm treading on sensitive ground full to the brim with landmines.

Bigass, non-negotiable landmines.

"Oh, there must be something," he probes, standing up. His voice drips with fake pleasantness. "Like, for instance, do you have any plans regarding your high school education?"

Shit!

I think frantically for some sort of explanation to cover my tracks, but none come to mind. My silence seems to be a cue for him to carry on.

"You may think your mother and I care about you education, which we do not, but you need to tell us which school you think about enrolling yourself in. Otherwise, how do we know what sort of education we will most certainly be paying for?"

The fact that I still remain silent seems to infuriate him. He wants an answer, but he knows I can't give him the right one.

"Do you honestly think you can keep secrets from me?" he shouts, slamming his fists down on the coffee table.

I still don't answer him and his face reddens even more. He grabs me roughly by the collar and hoists me off my seat. I know he can see how scared I am. Seven years of abuse can make it easy to notice.

I swallow another lump in my throat and put on a brave face. I promised myself I would never let him see my fear. I promised myself no more tears. I refuse to be broken.

"Answer me, you little wench!" he shouts, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out sooner or later?"

I keep my mouth shut. I've learned that if I give him an answer, I'll just get beaten up sooner. But, it doesn't help if I stay quiet, so I'm stuck in a painful catch 22.

He draws back his fist and punches me in the jaw, sending me sprawling across to the other end of the room.

I land at my mother's feet, blood seeping from the corner of my mouth from a bitten tongue.

"You should have answered him," is all she says before he drags me to my feet and kicks me down again.

I'm on the floor, and he's kicking me in the stomach. I manage to break away for a moment and my hand clasps around the door handle. My mother tries to pull me away and I kick out at her clawing hands in panic. One of her fake nails breaks and she cries out.

My father looks like a vicious pit bull that's just cornered a defenceless rabbit.

"I'll teach you to lay a hand on your mother!"

He kicks me down on the floor again and grabs a ceramic vase from one of the stands on either side of the door and starts hitting me with it. I try to shield my face from the blows with my already bruised arms. He then props me up against the wall, limp and lifeless, with my arms lying useless and bloodied at my sides.

"Now, what do you say to your mother?"

Weakly, I wipe a trail of blood away from the corner of my mouth with one hand and do the same to my nose with the other. Maybe if I can make him angry enough, he'll end it. End it all. I won't have to face the pain again…

"Nothing. She's not my mother," I growl, glaring up at the man and woman looking down at me. "And you're not my father, so don't tell me what to do."

His smile of maliciousness turns into a snarl of rage. Good.

"You little…!" and with that, the attacks start again.

I just take them as they come, knowingly helpless, lying in a growing pool of blood on the cold, hard living room floor.

…

A while later, I sit in a public toilet just outside the train station a few blocks from the house. I obviously hadn't made him angry enough.

Some people would ask me, "Why don't you just run away?"

The answer isn't that simple.

I'm a minor, so even if I did run away, the cops would just bring me back. And even on the slim chance that I did avoid the cops, I don't know any existing runaway gang that would take in someone like me. All I'm good for is using my guns, and I don't even have those. The last time I saw Revy, I gave them to her.

"Keep them for me," I had said, pressing them into her open hands. "Give them to me the next time I see you. I don't want them to get taken away."

I sigh and adjust the tissue on my bleeding nose. I don't think I'll ever see Revy again. Oh well. At least she'll have the guns to remember me by. Anyway, even though the home is abusive, my tattered room keeps me warm at night and gives me shelter from the rain.

I stifle another yawn and rub my dry eyes with the back of my hand. It's late – around half past eleven in the evening.

I had only managed to get off the floor at around sixish. My legs had just refused to work and I had been dizzy from loss of blood.

My 'parents' had left the house around four. I don't know were they went. I'm just glad they eventually left me alone, since 'dad' hadn't killed me.

I change tissues and throw the crimson-encrusted one in a nearby dustbin. I wipe the corner of my mouth again. My lip is cut, swollen and still bleeding, but not as badly as my banged-up nose.

Breathing hurts, and not just because of my nose. My ribs hurt, too, and it's painful to move around too much. I lean back against the cistern of the toilet I'm sitting on. The lid is down and I draw my legs up, resting my head on my knees. I cringe at the pain that follows all my actions. I sigh again.

This is going to be a long night.

She's very similar to Revy in a lot of ways…I just realized that :/ but I suppose it makes sense since Jamey idolizes everything she does.

This fic is gonna work on the same principle as my others - review for the next chapter :P