Author's note: Just in case you were wondering, I DID re-do this chapter, because I thought that I should make you guys more aware of Rebecca's past, and why she is so unwilling to trust David. I hope you prefer this one :) Oh yeah, Star isn't going to be David's girlfriend in this story, even though that's fairly obvious anyway.
I hope you like it! Please review :)
"Suffering, once accepted, loses its edge, for the terror of it lessens, and what remains is generally far more manageable than we had imagined."
The beginning of my life was never easy. I grew up in one of the roughest places in London, England, and was raised by a mother who didn't care much for me. My father, I'd heard, hadn't treated her very well while he was around – he left before I was born. This resulted in her being left jobless, with the responsibility of single-handedly raising a baby. So she could never do the things any other woman her age could – maybe this was why she resented me so much. As far as she was concerned, I was just another problem that was brought around when my dad left. I knew she still loved him, though, even after everything he'd put her through. I spent my earlier days trying figure out why she didn't love me the same way. The reason I eventually came up with – I wasn't a good enough child for her. And yet I'd tried the best I could in the shabby school that was more of a home to me than anywhere else, and I did whatever I could to make her love me like she'd loved my father. I was unsuccessful.
As soon as I turned ten, I was pulled out of school so I could make up for my mother's unemployment by working five days a week, which earned us a measly income of two pounds a day. Most of the money went towards my mother's cigarettes and, as I found out later, the stash of drugs she'd kept hidden from me in the kitchen cupboard.
At the age of twelve, I knew that my father had done the right thing by running away. The night after my unacknowledged birthday, I packed my bags and headed off, to where, I wasn't sure. I had few possessions – toothbrush, a photo of my mother and father while they were together, and the small sum of money I'd been able to scrounge from the house before I left.
I lived in the streets for what seemed like an eternity to me, finding reasons for living in the hope that, one day, I would be able to find something more than this. Maybe I could adopt, be the mother that I never had. Or perhaps I could find a hidden talent somewhere inside of me that I never realized I'd had, and become rich and famous for it.
The first time I could save up enough money, I went to the local music store and bought a guitar. I played on the streets, making more money than I ever did before, and eventually I found other kids who, like me, had ran away from home. Many of them disappeared without a goodbye, for reasons I did not know. I only assumed they left for the same reason my father did. But, as it had done for the past twelve years of my life, faith kept me going. Faith that someday I'd find something worth living for.
My lucky break came a year later. A family, visiting England for the first time, saw me playing in the streets one day, and made it their responsibility to look after me. I didn't trust them, at first – I'd never been able to trust anyone my entire life, but in the end, I realized I'd found something worth believing in.
So they took me back to America, where we lived in sunny phoenix for the next three years of my life. But both worlds had taken their toll on me – my old, dark existence had gifted me with determination and strength, and a sarcastic humour that even Michael, my new older brother couldn't beat. And my new life had given me things I couldn't have possibly dreamed of before – love, laughter, and a sense of meaning in everything I did.
Nobody would have guessed that I had come from such a dark background, although they did ask when they heard the slight English accent in my voice. It was a relief I didn't deserve – no one ever spoke about my past, and neither did I. It was only my family and the closest of my friends that knew what I'd been through.
But then, after a divorce between my new mother Lucy and her husband, we moved to Santa Carla. Michael, Sam, and I weren't pleased about leaving our sunny world, but I figured that as long as I wasn't going back to England then I should be grateful. But I wasn't.
So here I was, after everything that had happened. Santa Carla's sunlit beaches streamed past the windows of the car as we headed to my adoptive grandpa's house. My head was leaning out the window, a tangle of messy copper hair that was being beaten in the wind. A large sign caught my eye, announcing that we had arrived in Santa Carla. Scrawled on the back of it, in untidy graffiti, was a sentence that read:
MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.
I stared at it, unsure whether to be afraid or not. Sam was certainly afraid, gazing at the note with wide eyes. But I'd known much worse than living in this place, murder capital of the world or not. And anyway – it's not like I was planning on staying long.
Wind-chimes tinkled in the breeze as we pulled into Grandpa's driveway. I hauled my luggage out of the car, along with the small bag of belongings that I'd taken when I'd run away at twelve, and started dragging everything towards the house.
I saw Lucy already there, bending over someone lying down outside the garage. It was Grandpa. He wasn't moving.
I stayed by the car, watching as Michael and Sam slowly made their way over to him.
"He looks dead," noted Michael.
"If he's dead, can we go home?"
I laughed at Sam's hopeful expression, and wandered over to where they were all crowded. Grandpa suddenly sat up.
"I was playing dead! And from what I heard, doing a damn good job of it, too!"
Lucy laughed, and the worry lines on her forehead smoothed out. Trust Grandpa to play a stupid trick on her like that. No doubt Lucy almost had a heart attack.
We each made our way inside, each of us dragging various items of luggage. Michael and Sam raced up the stairs, bickering over which room would be theirs . . . I trudged after them slowly. I picked the smallest room – it was also the cosiest – while Michael and Sam were still arguing over the largest one.
I unpacked all my clothes into the empty drawers provided, and flopped down onto the mattress. All my other belongings lay scattered around the room. My guitar was propped up in one corner, my skateboard in another, both looking sorely out of place around the natural and refined furniture. My heart sank. Surely Santa Carla couldn't be that bad? I'd heard the boardwalk was alright – even if it was packed with a load of goons. Although I still seriously doubted it.
I sighed and buried myself deeper into the bed. Maybe this was all just a dream. Maybe, if I closed my eyes, I would wake up and realize that there was no Santa Carla after all. I truly hoped that was the case.
You may have noticed I do random quotes at the beginning of some chapters. If I find one that I really like, and it suits the chapter, then it'll go in there somewhere. All rights go to their respectful owners :)
