Chapter 1
It was almost my nineteenth birthday. Another year; another terrible year with no one to care for me. Fake IDs at the ready and nothing except the items in my beloved, torn-up backpack. Another year out of the system. No orphanages. Foster homes. Sometimes I miss it. At least, the good moments. The short lived time when there was the possibility of getting adopted. And those moments where I would pass a boy in school and he might turn around and tilt his head, and finally getting the balls to ask for my number. Which would be destroyed once I got the wherever I was staying at that time, and the next day he would ignore me. Just goes to show you how much experience I have in love. Many of my foster parents wouldn't treat me right, because I was older than all the other kids. They thought I could handle myself, and their drunken rages. I couldn't.
I was always intrigued by my name. Alexandria Winchester, although I preferred to go by Lex. No one else I knew, and no one on my mother's side had the surname Winchester. Alexandria was too much of a mouthful, and it was just too...unlike me. My mother always called me Lex. She said Alexandria always reminded her of my father. My father left after I was born. My mother said that she fell for him so bad. She started drinking away her pains. She crashed off a bridge while driving drunk when I was eleven and thus I was put into child services. After 7 years I started to take after my mother, drinking, smoking and harming away the pain. Sometimes I would go into a trance where everything was perfect. I cherished those moments that I had. Now, there are too few and I have been experiencing more panic attacks.
Bars were some of the most interesting places. There are people who go there just to drink, by themselves, or with friends. Others go there to try and hook up with a girl, which are always interesting to watch and I make bets with myself on whether or not the girl will agree. And then there are those rare few like me. Ordering the strongest on tap, or just wanting something. Sometimes they don't get enough to satisfy themselves. Other times, they pass out in their seat. During some very occasional moments, a girl will sit down next to me. Usually her makeup is run of some sort, or she looks as if she was crying. She would ask me questions and if I had a boyfriend. I would reply no, and she would laugh about how good it was to be single. Other times, she would tell me her life story, to which I would simply nod in reply.
I don't talk much. There isn't really anything to talk about, especially if you're with yourself for most of the time, and have been for 75 percent of your life. I was stuck with a crappy phone and an iPod that I stole from a girl's bag one time. I used it the most. I tried to stay in abandoned buildings and the occasional homeless shelter. But I survived.