I don't speak. The only person I ever really spoke to was my Mom, Valencia Martinez. Now she's dead. She died when I was 13. The funeral, so much black. Black lace, black tears from the eyeliner people caked on their faces, black umbrellas...No color.
It was a torturous day when her body was placed in that grave. The rain dripping down my face, colliding with the tears already streaming down my stained only person I could trust was dead, and I felt like life wasn't as much as It was with her around. Especially because of Jeb.
Jeb was my step dad, married to my mother when I was 7. Since I had no other family, The state placed me with him. And just like that life became a living hell.
I was abused. He punched me, stabbed me, basically hurt me in any way possible. He told me every morning that If I said a word to anybody about it, he would kill me. It was hard, but somehow, I remained still standing.
I never talk, though. Because of the death. Because of Jeb. Because of the bullies at school. Everyone around me thinks I'm a freak. I think about suicide every now and then. But then I look through the album. The album of Mom and Me. It always made me feel happy, like nothing was wrong in my life. But of course, everything was.
Line Break!
The alarm punctured my ears, my hands slamming against the snooze button as I slowly rose from my unkempt bed. Grabbing the door to the bathroom, I walked against the cold tile floor, my cuts on the soles of my feet burning from the touch. School time.
I clutched onto my toothbrush, reaching over for the empty Colgate tube. Managing to squeeze enough of the viscous paste out, I felt the bristles of the brush push against the cuts strewn across the inside of my cheek, opening them up once more and spilling out fresh blood.
Picking up a nearby concealer, I caked my face with the make-up. The distinct purple-ish color of the bruises began to fade under the light strokes of my finger dabbing the goo on my skin.
Now that that was over, I picked up a small hairbrush. Combing out the huge knots wasn't easy, feeling the hurting tugs of the raking bristles. Holding my dirty blonde hair in one hand and brushing with other, I subtracted the pain from the equation. Now done, I strided towards my closet; slightly limping as I went.
My hands latched onto a plastic hanger exposing the black fabric of a sweatshirt hanging down limply. I grabbed a pair of food-stained jeans and put them on swiftly, feeling the fabric of the pants brush against my scars.
I reached forward for a pair of black cotton socks, relishing the soft surface of the stolen sock I retrieved from a nearby Wal-Mart. Sighing quietly, I slipped on a pair of beaten Converse, the usual color. Black.
My backpack straps now placed on my shoulders, I stepped toward the fridge, tiptoeing. Opening the door, I grabbed a brown-ish apple, already bitten into. Breakfast time. Here, I had to appreciate the tiniest bit of food. Even if it was a cruel morsel.
I ran towards the door, eager to escape from home for the afternoon. Then I realized: I'm going to school. There and here were just about the same, comparing the ways people treated me.
I inhaled the morning air greedily, feeling the wind push back my hair. Seeing the recognizable features of the stop sign ahead, I ran to my bus stop. Just when the bus was about to depart, the doors opened once again, letting me in. Groans and whines escaped from various group of kids as I placed my foot on the bus floor.
"Hey look the Emo Kid!" The usual.
"What's up Ride? Cat got your tongue?" Even More so. But this one belonged to a familiar person. The main bully who destroyed my social status in school. Not that I could've done that by myself. Nick Walker. The most popular player, jock, and whatever in the school. He was a portion of the part of my life that I wish I never had. Like Jeb.
"Nothing to say, huh? As expected." I fumbled around in my pocket for my mp3. Grasping onto the small object, I plugged the headphones in my ears: blocking out the voices of the world around me. A smirk plastered onto his face as he glared at the item in my hands.
"Someone's being rude." The bus came to a sudden halt. I looked above the leather brown seats to see what happened. We finally had arrived at school.
I stood up, being the first one to leave as usual. The silver handles of the doors leading into the hallways came into view, me striding toward them as fast as possible.
"Not so fast, Ride." A nasally voice popped up behind me. I turned around only to be met with a flash of red. Lissa.
"Wow. Eager to get away from us?" Glancing nervously around me, I was only met with a shove and the feeling of the sidewalk rubbing against my sweatshirt. Sweat trickled down my back and a wave of nausea hit me.
"Go get her." She commanded to the football players hovering over her. It was all a blur, moving fists, swift punches. But I was used to it. So I just sat there, taking it in. As usual.
Line Break!
It's now about two hours since Lissa sent those jocks to beat me up. I looked at my surroundings, noticing the brick wall blocking me from the school. It's clear. Pulling up my sleeves to my black sweatshirt, I examined the varied colors of the newly hatching bruises. Wincing as I went, I dabbed concealer on the marks, slowly taking my time to ensure quality.
My stomach ached and so did my legs. Brain throbbing and gut hurting, I managed to stand up: sleeves still rolled up to my elbows. The pink scars of the past strewn across my arm.
I was just about to head inside, noticing that I already skipped about 3 classes. Sighing, I limped toward the corner of the building.
"Ride?" I turned around slowly, noticing the questioning tone of a familiar human being. Nick. He stepped closer to me, widened eyes. And then I noticed it. My sleeve had never been pulled down, the many scars exposed to him and his obsidian irises.
"What the hell are those?" His voice was deep and rather scary, panic bubbling inside me like a pot of boiling water.
Tears welled up in the corner of my eyes, my body turning an angle away from him. And then I ran. I ran away from school, crossing the gravel of the roads leading to my home. Yes. I ran home. Which was a very bad mistake.