Warning: Mention of drugs, foster homes, and physical/verbal abuse. Cursing is also used.
I'd say enjoy but it would be weird after I just said that warning.. ^^
The eight year old girl silently sobs, the act wracking her body. Numb hands shake violently and shuttering breathes echo in the bare room. Tear trails stream from her face. They originate from her puffy, red eyes. She squeezes them tightly in an attempt to halt the waterworks. Yelling resonates from downstairs and continues to batter the girl's happiness. It reminds her what she is so upset about. Remembering what she was told at an even younger age, she thinks of happier things.
After what seems like hours, a woman slowly enters the room. The young girl immediately runs towards her. They embrace once the woman kneels in front of the child. Both close their eyes in relief, but for different reasons.
"Am I ... am I really that bad, Momma?" The young girl's voice is unsteady, and shakes with dread.
"No, don't you ever think that, honey!" She tightens her hold on the child and takes in a shaky breath.
This peaceful moment ends abruptly. The sickening thud of blade meeting flesh breaks the moment of silence. It is the only sound that signifies the impending death. All sound is muted as the kind, gentle woman falls to the floor in a heap. Her own blood pools around her, the crimson liquid shining maliciously.
Though this is beyond scarring, what makes the scream launch from the girl's throat is the person holding the knife. Behind the woman, stands an older version of the girl, a psychotic grin on her face. The child screams louder, and is the only sound still heard as everything fades into oblivion.
I jerk to attention, the sheets of my bed pooling around my midsection. My heartbeat pounds against my chest, threatening to launch out of my body. With slight relief, I realize it was just another repeating nightmare. These terrible dreams have been haunting my subconscious for as long as I can remember. Previous therapists used to tell me it was my brain's own way of dealing with what... happened. Yes, this nightmare was not just imagined, it was a memory.
At eight years old I had a wonderful adoptive mother, but my father was completely the opposite. He was a drunk, druggie, and abuser. To this day I do not understand how his wife stayed with him. I recall them fighting practically every day, and my eight year old self curling in my room and hoping it will be over. With vivid memory I remember the day that the husband snapped. They had been fighting about something, and she had come up to check on me. Then there was the blade, the blood, and the breaking of bones. Instead of my own self wielding the blade like in my nightmare, it was the husband, my 'adoptive father'. He ended up in prison thank god, and will be there for a very long time. I was moved once again to another family.
Shaking these thoughts away, I swiftly get ready for - ick! - school. I take a shower and put on my usual attire: a black leather jacket, grey skinny jeans, blue and white flannel shirt, white tank top underneath, sunglasses, and black Nike high tops. I'm pretty lucky in the sense that my current foster family is not present in the house - or the town for that matter. They're on vacation, and trust me - that's a good thing! My 'family' consists of demons and a spoiled bastard. They all have their own addictions, money, drugs, and alcohol. I'm just glad that they do not bother me much. They don't care about me, so I don't care about them. Simple as that.
Sometimes their one and only son, Derek, would pick on me. As in verbally and physically - though it never got sexual. You may ask why I don't fight back... Well I used to - that was until they would all join in for the fight against me if I hit him back. Luckily he doesn't do it anymore, he usually just ignores me now. I'm quite grateful for this, considering I've had worse families in the past. I shiver at the memories of previous foster parents and their children. Let's just say people can get creative when they want to ... express themselves. Shaking my head to rid myself of these nightmarish thoughts, I head outside and wait on the sidewalk. It sucks being a junior without a driver's license. Yes, I skipped a grade... I'm fifteen now and I just cannot wait until I'm out of here. I guess at one point I cared about my education, but now - all I want is to leave.
The honking of a horn jolts me out of my thoughts. Immediately I race towards the awaiting muscle car. My friend, Justin, gives me a mischievous smirk. "Hey, you wanna skip hell today?"
"Thought you'd never ask, dude!" I grin as I say this, one that he also returns.
"Awesome, now listen. I need a favor, could you help me out Jade?" He asks this as I enter the car, a pleading expression on his face.
"Sure, man."
"Great, thanks! All you have to do is go into this warehouse, ask for Mark, and get the 'new supplies'."
"Hell no! I ain't your drug mule, bro. Do I look like a gangster to you?!"
"Please! I'll pay you! I'd do it myself but someone has to stay in the car and you can't drive so..."
"..."
"PLEASE! I'll even do some of your homework!"
"You can't even do your own homework, dumbass. I'll do it, but you owe me the money and a big favor. Got it?"
Justin nods repeatedly in answer. We drive in silence until we reach the warehouse. Once we enter the property, my uneasiness grows. My friend senses my doubt and gives me a teasing smile. "Jade ain't scared of a little meeting, is she?"
I glare at him for a moment before exiting the car. "Scared.. me? No! ... Stupid... deal.. god damn.. Justin.." I grumble this under my breath, kicking some stones as I head towards the entrance.
It doesn't take long for me to reach the guards who are blocking the way in. With a surprisingly confident voice I state, "I'm here to see Mark for the new supplies, I'm with Justin."
They nod simultaneously and allow me to open the door and enter. One leads me to a fancy office door in the warehouse. He knocks on the door and then ushers me inside when a muffled, "come in" is heard. I hesitantly sit down in a comfortable chair and take in the soothing decorations. This feeling of comfort vanishes when I take in the large man before me. He sits in an even larger chair, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored tux. His arms practically bulge out of his jacket sleeves and his large hands are clasped before him. Though he looks healthy, I can tell he is old by his receding hairline. I'm surprised when I notice a walking cane near his desk, obviously for him.
I swallow my trepidation and clear my throat to speak, only for him to interrupt me. "Justin sent you to collect?" His accent and tan complexion lead me to the belief that he most definitely is Hispanic.
"Uh, yes sir. He said he wanted the new supplies..." I drift off and give him an uneasy look.
At first, his stoic expression remains emotionless. Then in a flash anger is sweeping through his features. "So he thinks he can just send some slut to pick up some of my inventory? Did he tell you that he still owes me almost one thousand dollars for his last request? Maybe I'll just have you pay for it.. in another way."
I shiver at the meaning of 'another way'. My eyes widen in fear before I compose myself. Two guards are now standing on either side of the chair I am sitting on. They are both armed and tug me up, so that I am now standing.
"Wait! You don't understand! This is a mistake! I didn't know!"
They force me towards the door and shut me up with a kick to the back. I calm myself into focusing and rack my brain for a solution. That's when I remember the cane I had first seen, now fairly close to me. Without waiting another second, I dive for the walking stick. I grasp the wooden cane with slick hands and swing it like a baseball bat. It knocks one of the guard's guns out of his hand. Shots ring out and I duck out of their path. My luck runs out when the second guard gives a blow to my head. I grunt in pain and stumble to the ground. The cane falls out of my hands and I curse softly.
My hands reach desperately for the walking stick, but I cannot reach it. I cry out as the second guard pins me, my stomach pressed against the floor. In a last chance of survival, I reach for the cane. Almost like magic, the polished wood is pulled into my grip. With surprising speed, I slam the cane's handle into my attacker's face. I hear the crack of a bone and instantly recognize the sign of a broken nose. Taking advantage of their surprise, I slam the wood once again into his throat and then charge the guard who still has a gun. He attempts to shoot, but nothing comes out. He curses aloud, realizing he needs to reload. I smirk and swing the cane into his hand that is holding the gun. Without a second to loose I hit him in the head and watch him collapse to the floor in a jumble of limbs.
Not wasting another moment, I grab a firearm and race towards the back exit. There is no other commotion, as most of the guards are still in the warehouse and are busy working. Though it won't take long for word to spread that their boss is in danger. It gives me a small pang of pride that they will think of me as that much of a threat. This feeling totally disperses when the sound of yelling and shots rings out in the parking lot. I dive behind cover as gunfire continues to echo across the asphalt. My eyes search for Justin and when I find him, my blood runs cold.
He is already driving out of the compound, gunning the vehicle and leaving me here! To die! Curses blow out of my throat like air, my anger rising as I watch the car disappear. More gunshots return my focus to the task at hand. I then turn my attention to finding an escape route. A car closest to me catches my attention. It is fairly expensive, and is obviously the boss's. I sprint towards the vehicle and swing the cane into the window, breaking the glass. With smooth speed, I dive into the car after unlocking it and slamming it shut behind me.
"Looks like your plan comes to an end, joven. You don't have the key. Now get out and I'll make sure you have a painless death." The old man smirks as he says this, completely surrounded by armed guards.
"You mean this key?" I smirk and hold up a golden key, dangling it so he can see it. His own sly smile vanishes and he immediately searches his pockets.
"Not as smooth as you think, huh? Getting slow in your old age, viejo?" I widen my taunting smirk and then insert the key, the engine purring to life. The car jumps forward, plowing trough the boundary fence as I slam on the gas. I leave the compound in dust, shots firing at me as I escape.
I'm driving for I don't know how long when I notice a town sign. Rain has started to pour and puddle along the side of the street. I can barely see part of the name, "Story - what?"
Between the stress, fear, rapidly decreasing energy, and blows to the head, a migraine has formed rapidly inside my head. I wince at the murderous pain and sigh in exhaustion. I don't even know where I am and the storm is certainly not helping. These headaches have occurred since I was child, and have increasingly gotten worse over the years.
I close my eyes and rub my temple. This turns out to be a terrible idea. I swerve on the slick road, tires screeching in complaint. A scream rips from my throat as the car tosses into the air and rolls on the pavement. Metal yowls and eventually everything fades to black.
joven - Spanish for young person, teen, or young adult
viejo - Spanish for old man, elder, aged person
Hope everyone enjoyed this first chapter! I would love to hear the love.. I will say who inspired me to write this after the plot is completely open (I don't want to spoil anything!)
=]