'KC had never caught up like the rest of the rats in a fuc-' Tim Armstrong's voice was cut off as I tugged the headphones out of my ears and opened the front door. Kicking off my worn out hightops and dropping my backpack on the floor, I turned and kicked the door shut. Apparently the door had other plans because it swung back and hit me in the ass.
"Fuck, it's winter!" I cursed to myself, leaning against the door and twisting the lock. For whatever reason, every winter the handle sticks so you have to turn the lock so it will stay shut.
I've been trying to convince my mother that we need to move. This house is falling apart. There are wires hanging where wired shouldn't hang. Wind gets through cracks that shouldn't be there. There's an apple sized hole in the veiling right above my closet. The toilet leaks. And since the rent is so high, we can't afford heat or food. But this house is home, and we can't leave it behind - according to my mother anyways. Personally, I could care less if Godzilla went on a rampage and sat on it.
I walk through the kitchen to the back door, making a mental note to wash the mile-high stack of dishes piled in the sink. As soon as the back door opens I end up flat on my ass with a 180lbs rottwhieler standing on top of me, licking my face.
"Sasha! How's my baby girl?" I coo, while getting to my feet and scratching under her chin.
I grab the dog food from under the sink and fill her bowl. She barks her thanks and starts inhailing her food.
"Mom? I'm home!" I yell, putting the food bag back under the sink and heading up the stairs.
"Mom? Are you here?" I call again.
No answer. That's strange. She should have been off work an hour ago. She's ALWAYS home before I am.
I make my way to her bedroom noticing the door is closed. Strange. She never shuts her door. I knock lightly while opening the door.
"Mom, are you in he-" the sight before me stopped me dead in my tracks.
Well, I found my mother. My breath caught in my chest as tears started crawling out of my eyes and staining my cheeks. I scanned her body, my entire body begining to shake. She was sprawled across her bed. Hair stuck up in every direction. Her face whiter than the sheets beneath her. But what caught my eye were the pools of blood surrounding her wrists, dripping to the floor.
I finally found my voice and managed to scream, "MOM!" before I collapsed on the floor in a head, my entire body shaking violently.
"Jonny Archibald?" a lady who looked to be in her late 40's, dressed in a black, pin striped skirt with matching blazer and a tight bun on the top of her head called, scanning the room.
I hastily whiped the tears away and stood facing her. "Yeah, sorry. That's me."
She looked me up and down, a frown replacing the sweet smile.
My apperance tends to do that to people. Whipe smiles off of their faces I mean. As soon as they look at me, they imidiately lable me as a 'troubled youth.'
See, most of my life I've been the black sheep. Even from a young age I would never do what I was told. I dressed how I wanted, said what I wanted and did what I wanted,
when I wanted.
On this particular day, I was clad in a pair of cheetah print spandex, hot pink Care Bear fanny pack around my waist, a ripped up Chachie ( from Happy Days ) shirt, worn out hightops and, of course, my bright blue mohawk and pink baby doll bangs. What can I say? I'm a colorful person.
"Right well, this way." She cleared her throat, disgust dripping from every syllable.
She led me through a heavy, pale blue door into a dull, biege hallway. She walked into the third office on the left and sat behind her desk, folding her hands infront of her.
I sat on the chair directly infront of her, tucking my feet under myself. She looked me up and down once more, her eyes coming to a hault on my wrist, and then moving slightly up to my shoulder, scrunching her nose in the process. She looked like someone who had opened up a milk jug that had been in the fridge for a couple months.
People always seem so disgusted when they see my tattoos. Something about the fact that I'm too young and blah blah blah. I have a rainbow on my left wrist, and my cat's name, Rex, with a heart under it on my shoulder. ( My cat died last summer, so I decided to get something to remember him by. )
"Right, anyways .. " she tore her eyes away from mytattoos and began to speak, " My name is Anne Adkins. Since your mother left no will.. " Way to be blunt lady. "and no foster home will take a 17 year old.. " she paused. Come on say it, 'punk', 'hoolagin', 'trouble maker', I know you've got some names swimming around in that head of your's lady. "girl, I had no choice but to search for a family member who is willing to take you in."
" I don't have any other family." I cut in, confused. I'd never met my father, my mother's only sibling, my auntie Angela, died of lung cancer three years ago, and both of my grandparents passed away when I was a baby.
"As I was saying, " she continued, jaw clenched, " I went searching for family willing to take you in. I found a ... " she paused as she flipped through a folder infront of her, " Victor Archibald, your father."
She said it so casually I almost didn't realise what she had said.
"My... father?" I repeart just above a whipser.
"He lives in New York City. Your flight leaves in.. " she raised her pudgy arm to look at her watch, " two hours. Lets get going then shall we?"
I was in a daze, eyes wide, following her to the front of the building. When we got to the front foor, I picked up my backpack and called for Sasha to follow me as Anne led us to her cramped, beat up, red civic.
As I sat in the passenger seat, and watched the trees and buildings go by in a blurr, it finally hit me : I'm moving to New York City. To live with my FATHER, who I have never met. My mother's dead.. and I'm leaving my home town, which by the way, IS IN CANADA! And ... I'm moving ... to NEW YORK FUCKING CITY!If it wasn't for the fact that I was going to live with my father, whom I have never met, I would be estatic. But since I am going to live with him, I'm completely dreading this. Shoot me now, please?
