Babe in the woods

«Ashley, are you going already?» Glen shouts after me, where he's glistening of what looks like baby-oil inside the gym.

Yes, we're at the gym.

Glen, the best brother ever, apparently figured out that I needed some anger-management, and not the usual kind. No, apparently, I am in crucial need of being about to speak up for myself, to defend myself, to let myself be angry.

Years in foster care can do that to you. Make you paralyzed. Make you helpless.

It did to me. Always having to be nice, needing to downplay any forthcoming emotions, never sticking up for myself.

Or being a damn pussy, as Glen so nicely put it.

So that's the reason why we're currently doing kick-boxing. Well, Glen is, 'cause my gloves are neatly laid down on the bench near the wall.

Fucking pussy, not even the damn gloves did you have the balls to throw to the ground.

«Yeah, I'm kinda tired, I'll just wait for you right here though.»

«Ashley, don't be an idiot, here» Glen says as he throws me the car keys. How the hell he managed to do that with both gloves firmly attached to his hands is beyond me.
Maybe he's got big pockets. Or small hands. Or a great grip. Why am I still talking about this?

«Thanks! It's been fun though, I'll definitely tag along another time too!»

I mean it, kicking the shit out of a bag really is more satisfying than I imagined.

The smell of rum inhaled through my nostrils makes my face cringe, but no one notices. I grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling the blood pump through my veins at how hard I press my hands against the leather. The voices are blurry, but they're close, oh so close.

Left back door opens, right one closes. One person enters, one person leaves. The smell of rum now mixed with the smell of tequila. A shove to my shoulder, a request thrown my way, eyes looking at me in the mirror, a smirk appearing, a sleazy sexual comment voiced – and I'm off to drive another of the associates home.

This is how it is.

This is how it's been for 3 months now.

And it doesn't get better.

«Amanda!»

Ashley wasn't classy enough. How on earth Amanda was oh so much more classy is beyond me, but I didn't have a say in it. I span the wheels of fortune and
according to everyone, hit the jackpot.

But every prize has its backside. I still haven't seen the front.

«Amanda, you are to speak up when you're talked to», the stern voice whispers to me as a hand grips my upper arm sharply, digging its nails into the skin, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

«George is not feeling too well, will you be kind enough to drive him home?» the voice says aloud, sounding nice and charming, but I know better. It's a show. It's all a show.

Why else would someone change my name at the age of sixteen?

He enters the car and literally falls into the backseat, drool on the side of his face. Some of it has gotten stuck in his mustache, it's a view that would surely make a great stir if it ever became a publicly known view.

It's amazing how different things are when the bloodshot, blurry eyes of their associates are on them,instead of the eyes of the common public. I will never look at their kind the same ever again. What once was trust, hope, commitment to these people, is now replaced with disgust, surrendered hope, and most of all – disappointment. It becomes more and more clear to me how my situation occurred. I no longer blame my parents. I no longer blame the drug dealers, or the landlords, or people working at the foster care. It's not their fault that the system doesn't work. It's

their fault.

«You... are such a pretty little lady...»

I ignore the comment, having heard it a million times before. The hand creeping into my hair is not being pushed away by my small, fragile fingers. I do not meet the eyes forcing me to meet them with my own. My eyes, and mind, is solely focused on the road, because that's where I have to focus my attention. Anger is not needed in this situation, but it's still threatening to appear, so it's vital to keep it in check. It's not a hard task, I've done it so many times before. It's all I've ever done, really.

Hand caressing my neck, I still don't stop the movements. It's not needed. George is not going to last much longer.

Not even the first time it happened, did I get angry. I got scared though, being seated alone in a car with a man twice my size. A man twice my size, with twice my strength, feeling me up in his drunken stupor. I had heard the stories, too many of them, and I was sure this was my turn. It had to happen eventually, right? No one managed to get away from the system entirely pure.

I somehow accepted what would happen to me, long before it did, and when the situation occurred, it somehow didn't at the same time. Because poor, old George fell asleep before he even managed to graze my boobs. But I knew his intent. I saw his lust.

And now I'm waiting for George to fall asleep again like he always does, while he's desperately trying to inflict the lust he's filled with, into me.

But I think even he knows he's got no chance.

We're almost at the mansion when I see another car pulled up. A limo. Christine must be home. The road up to the mansion is long, with a great view of everything. Somehow, George is still awake, and when we reach the house, he crosses the line.

I always thought I would be able to block it out if something actually happened. That I would keep still, turn him off by not giving him anything, not even a scream. But when his manicured hand cups my right breast, I flinch away from him as if on instinct.

It wakes him up properly.

An arm drags mine so I fall into the passenger seat, and suddenly, he's hovering over me. His hot breath is on my stomach where my shirt has risen up, and he kisses it. The hands are rough around my arms, keeping me in place, but the kisses are soft, butterfly ones. He doesn't want to do it the rough way.

I'm not giving it to him.

Just as I'm about to kick him in the groin, the door above my head opens, and I look up into the face of Christine. She's upside down, but I still see her clearly. Still, it surprises me when it's me she drags by the hair out of the car, and not George. When it's me she hits in the face, and not him. When it's me she screams at, lashes
out at.

When it's me being kicked out, not him.

There's just something about driving. I don't know what it is, some say there's a certain freedom to it. I – on the other hand – find it contradicting, because really, you're trapped. You're inside a piece of metal, bound by a system. Whichever turn you make, it's not entirely your own. Someone has laid it all out for you, to choose, but sometimes what you really want is to choose neither. To choose the road not taken. The road not there.

I learned this the hard way, by letting a rich couple pay for my license. I let them give me something huge, and instead of gaining freedom, it made me into a slave.

My inner conflicts lose the battle for my attention when a distant song creeps it's way into my ears. It's getting louder now, and I start to recognize it.

Fuck, I took Glen's cell again!

Reaching the right hand back into the seats, I search for Glen's backpack where he always puts his phone. I take a quick glance backwards and see it sitting right behind me. Frantically stretching for it, I curse my height, wishing my arm was long enough to reach it.

Damn phone.

As a last attempt at reaching it, I feign surrender, before suddenly flipping the back of my seat down, laying myself upon it, and losing contact with the steering wheel.

Fuck!

I flip myself up again, but not far, so I can reach both the steering wheel and the backpack at the same time.

«Ah ha!»

Flipping the backpack over, I let all of Glen's stack flow into the passenger seat, before I reach for the phone and flip it open, still looking at the mess I created in the passenger seat. My eyes land on a pack of condoms, and my eyes pop open in amusement.

«Glen? GLEEEEEEN!»

The amusement of what Glen actually brings with him to school makes me forget to talk into the phone, and the voice suddenly invading my ears shock me. Then frighten me.

Guess who's on the phone.

«You stupid fuck, answer me dammit! You need to pick me up!»

I freeze, knowing I need to speak up, but I'm too afraid to do so.

«Uh, it's Ashley.»

I cringe at what I said, although I have no idea why, it wasn't like I stammered or said something inappropriate. Still it makes me take the wrong turn, and I curse internally.
It takes a moment before Spencer replies.

«Well, I don't care who's on the phone, as long as I'm being picked up asap, this party is laaaame!»

Phone clicked shut.

And it isn't mine.

I'm still holding the phone up to my ear when I notice I've driven way too far for my own good in the wrong direction.

Spencer's drunk.

Spencer's drunk at a party.

I don't know why it makes me frown, why it bothers me, it's not like I'm not used to it.

Spencer's always drunk.

I've just never really interacted with her in that state.

Cause I always avoid her.

And now that I'm forced to face her, I wish I had another road to take. One that wasn't put out there for me, one that didn't have a reaction.
Because whatever I choose to do – pick her up or leave her – it's so not going to go down pretty.