*I do not own The A Team, Ed Sheeran does, and I also don't own The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton does. This story was inspired by one of the characters. Can you guess who it is?
Also I updated this because I was rereading it and I noticed a lot of typo's, hopefully I fixed them all. Thanks for reading!
White lips, pale face
Breathing in snowflakes
Burnt lungs, sour taste
White snowflakes dance around you sticking to your hair and freezing your skin. You shiver in your black mini skirt and tight, revealing shirt. You could've worn stockings or a jacket, but those don't get the guys attention. You've learned from years of going to bars and late nights at clubs that guys like skin, so skin is what you show.
You lean against a lamp post lighting up what looks to be a cigarette, but you know better. It's a joint you bought from some random dealer a few alleys back. You breathe in the deadly fumes wishing they would hurry up and take you. The sour taste fills your mouth. The first time you did this you told yourself you wouldn't ever do it again, but here you are. You loved how they made you feel, or maybe it was the lack of feeling you had after breathing in the drug. These fumes could kill you. If they did then you wouldn't have to do this anymore. You don't want to be here or anywhere else. Being six feet under is the only place that sounds appealing.
Light's gone, day's end
Struggling to pay rent
Long nights, strange men
You walk up to the run down apartment complex you live at and kick a soda can lying on the ground. It makes an empty, hollow sound when your boot connects with the aluminum, and you think that if someone kicked you, it would sound exactly the same. Lately, you have felt so empty. So broken. There's nothing left inside of you that wants to keep going.
This is the trashiest part of town; the only part of town you can afford to live in. You walk up to your door and pull out the silver key, rubbing the cold metal in between your bony fingers. Once you slip the key into the lock you notice an official looking paper taped to the door. It's an eviction notice. You groan as you finish unlocking the door, and you light up another joint once you're inside.
You don't know how much longer you can move from apartment to apartment; you don't know how much longer you can be empty. Everything is taking a toll on you and you don't know how long you have left.
And they say
She's in the Class A Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since eighteen
But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking, wasting
Crumbling like pastries
You stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror of your moldy bathroom. You feel like you're suffocating, so you grab a rag and scrub the makeup off your face. Looking at yourself without the makeup make you realize why you always put so much on. For the first time, you notice the blue veins running across your face like roads on a map. You notice how your face is practically translucent and how your cheeks are sunken in. Your pale green eyes hold the look of fear you always carry with you, and there are bags underneath them from long, restless nights.
People say you are fearless. They say you aren't scared of anything, but they are wrong. Oh, they are so wrong. You are scared of everything.
And they scream
The worst things in life come free to us
Cause we're just under the upper hand
And go mad for a couple grams
At the age of six, you watched your alcoholic father shoot your mother. At the age of nine, your father got kicked out of the house and you were homeless. Maybe you started to die when your mother did. Maybe you started to die when you lived on the streets, cold every night, hungry every day. Maybe you were born dead.
And she don't want to go outside tonight
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland
Or sells love to another man
At the age of fourteen, you were introduced to what could be the death of you. You were alone in an alley when a few guys started cat calling you. Right there in the alley, they ruined you. Your first time went to them. You wanted to hate it. You begged for them to stop, but you were lying to yourself. You loved it. It made you feel important. It made you feel wanted. It made you feel like you mattered. You felt powerful. You didn't know how to stop.
It's too cold outside
For angels to fly
Angels to fly
When you were little your mother called you an angel. She said your blond hair and pale green eyes gave you an angelic glow. Now all they give you is men. You desperately wish you could be an angel, but you know you never were. Your mother was wrong; you are no angel.
Your name is brought up in town. Everyone knows who you are. Everyone knows what you do. They whisper behind your back. They call you names like slut and whore. They know all about you, but they don't know you. If they did then maybe someone could've helped. Maybe if they helped you wouldn't be this bad. You're beyond help now. No one will be able to fix you, not like anyone wants to.
Ripped gloves, raincoat
Tried to swim and stay afloat
Dry house, wet clothes
Loose change, bank notes
Weary-eyed, dry throat
Call girl, no phone
You don't even know what you want in life anymore. You have next to nothing. The dry apartment you have is getting taken away from you. None of your clothes cover you enough to give you any warmth. The money you had was from the men you slept around with, but you blew that green on joints. There is a pile of bills on the kitchen counter that you haven't even opened.
You don't know what you want in life. You don't even know if you deserve life since you don't even want to live it.
And they say
She's in the Class A Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since eighteen
But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking, wasting
Crumbling like pastries
You don't know where it came from, but there's a pocket knife in your purse. You flip open the blade and run your fragile finger over the sharp edge, pressing slightly too hard. You examine the crimson blood on your finger and decide you like the look of it, so you move over to your wrist.
And they scream
The worst things in life come free to us
Cause we're just under the upper hand
And go mad for a couple grams
At the age of fifteen, your father drunk himself to death; you were on your own. People say you are tough. People say you know how to get what you want. People talk, they say things, they are wrong. All you want it to be dead, and you haven't gotten that yet.
And she don't want to go outside tonight
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland
Or sells love to another man
Fourth man this week. You don't know his name, but his money is as green as anybody's, so you let him do what he wants. He's rougher than most, but you enjoy the pain. You deserve the pain. At least that's what you tell yourself. That's what you've been telling yourself for years.
It's too cold outside
For angels to fly
An angel will die
Covered in white
Tonight you're going to a bar. You're not even old enough to be inside a drinking joint, but nobody around here seems to care. You cake your face with makeup and put on a skin tight white dress that doesn't quite cover your bottom when you bend over. Even though you are getting slimmer by the second you still have a curvy figure that the boys love. Maybe you'll wind up with another stranger tonight; maybe you'll pass out drunk. But all you really want to do is stay home.
Closed eye
And hoping for a better life
This time, we'll fade out tonight
Straight down the line
You do wind up with a man. You keep your eyes closed the whole time though. You think about what your life could've been. Maybe if your mother had divorced your father and was still alive you wouldn't be here. Maybe if your mother was still here you'd be okay. If your mother was here maybe this wouldn't have been who you turned out to be. You wish, and not for the first time, that your body would give up so you could be with your mother. Maybe if she was here you'd still be an angel.
And they say
She's in the Class A Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since eighteen
But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking, wasting
Crumbling like pastries
They scream
The worst things in life come free to us
And we're all under the upper hand
And go mad for a couple grams
At the age of seventeen, you found out you were pregnant. You had hopes of keeping the child, but you knew you wouldn't be able to give it anything. Its life would be worse than yours. You drank and smoked and eventually found out that you had miscarried. You started to die when your mother did but did a bit more that day.
And we don't want to go outside tonight
And in a pipe we fly to the Motherland
Or sell love to another man
You're tired of men. You're tired of moldy apartments. You're tired of bills in the kitchen. You're tired of drinking and smoking joints, hoping it will kill you. You're tired of people's whispers. You're tired of nobody caring and no one helping. You're tired of the pain.
People say you can handle anything. They are wrong. They are liars. They are always liars.
It's too cold outside
For angels to fly
Angels to fly
To fly, fly
For angels to fly, to fly, to fly
One girl. One sharp knife. Eight bleeding cuts. Some say that's all it took. As usual, they are wrong.
It took more than that. It took a dead mother, living on the streets, a dead father. It took unwanted men and joints and a miscarriage. It took bars that didn't ask for an ID and moldy apartment complexes. It took dirty mirrors and a face full of makeup. It took little white dresses and being cold in the snow. It took rude comments and people unwilling to help. It took a mysterious knife and a need to feel pain. It took so much more than what people said it did.
You have been broken since your mother died. Your mom always called you her angel. She told you you could have whatever you wanted in life. You believed her. You did want something in life, and that was not to have it.
One broken girl. One sharp knife. Eight bleeding cuts. A lifetime of pain.
That's all it took.
Your mother's angel was dead.
For angels to die