Ok. I'm trying something new.
I'm going to do a new style of writing that I've never done before, but
that I really enjoy.
It's rated R for very good reason (this story is basically all of my
nightmares wrapped up into an X-men fic; yes, it does get into X-Men soon)
so if you don't think you can handle this, then DON'T READ IT.
I could tell you to review, but that would just annoy you and waste my
time, so I won't. It's your choice completely. Besides, I'm writing this
story because I enjoy it and it's therapeutic. However, if you DO decide to
review. *everyone chants along* No flames or mean reviews or you will be
publicly HUMLILIATED. Thank you! Enjoy!
Prelude-
They never even found me.
Stupid cops.
Lousy, if you ask me.
Hardly did their jobs.
Attacked the car like a serial killer was lodged in there, smashed the windows in, glanced around, and then left, saying I was missing.
Duh.
You think?
By then, I was LONG gone, Baby.
LONG gone.
By then, I was half a day's walk north, about five miles west of Central Park, sitting in a McDonald's and eating a BigMac with some money I stole from my 'talented' mom.
Don't go judging me now, ok?
I'm not a bad kid.
I'm not a punk off the street who steals money and sleeps around with everyone.
That's my mom.
She got pregnant with me at sixteen, dropped out of highschool, earns a living 'making men's dreams come true', and beats the living crap out of me when she's drunk and high.
At least she used to beat the holy crap out of me.
Then I just snapped and ran off.
I just grabbed some money out of the car and beat it.
I was sixteen then, determined to be a better person then dear old mommy.
Anyway, while I was eating my sandwich and drinking my water (I don't do pop-sorry), I was kind of laughing at those loser cops who had suddenly come on the news and were talking about how they were desperately searching for me and how they WOULD help me, no matter what it took. Then my mom came on, all weepy and tearful, and started talking about how dear I was to her and how awful life would be without 'her baby girl'.
Then it showed shots of the mutilated car and a bloody mess inside (turns out I was a suspected murder victim-cool)
I giggled, shook my head, and lowered my hood closer to my face when some weird man looked over at me.
Ok, truth be told, I was terrified.
I was ready to start bawling and run back to mom, even if she would beat me to within an inch of my life.
I didn't know my next step.
I had no clue as to where I was going.
All I had were the clothes I was wearing, some-hundred dollars.and some other things that I was trying to figure out.
I just had to get out of there before.
Well.before mom made me into what she was.
I guess the entire reason I left was because of the conversation my mom had forced on me the night before.
The night had been an ok one; mom had gotten good jobs and I had only been hit a few times. We were eating at Taco Bell, sitting across from each other and pretty much trying to remain inconspicuous (at least I was; mom was flirting with men embarrassingly enough).
Suddenly, Mom cleared her throat and looked at me and forced a smile, which she never does.
I smiled back and kept eating, averting my gaze, knowing something BIG was happening.
Finally, mom spills the beans, "You know, Sweetie, we're.sorta low on cash."
"Yea?" I took a sip of water, "How so?"
"I.haven't been getting many.costumers."
"Then where you been all day? Shopping?"
"Don't start sassing me," she said softly, dangerously, and I closed my mouth, chewing.
Mom tried again, "What I mean is.I.could use some help."
I glanced at her, "Want me to go around wearing I sign that says, 'My mom's a whore, get some while you can'?"
Mom glared at me and snapped, "No!"
I shrugged, "What?"
"What I WANT is.I want a partner.someone to.to help me with the.the men."
I stared at her numbly, "What?"
Mom swallowed her food and took a drink before continuing, "I want you to help me with the men."
"Like what? Give them feet massages?
Mom stared at me coldly, "Don't pretend to be stupid, Rachael."
"I don't have to pretend. It's in my genes."
Mom reached across the table and slapped me, hard, across the face.
The Taco Bell was almost deserted, save one old man who was snoring in the corner, so no one noticed when I almost toppled from my chair from the impact of my mom's blow.
Tears of pain stung my eyes and I blinked them back, lifting my fingers to my now-bleeding lip.
I took in a sharp breath and sighed, sitting up slowly and keeping my gaze on my taco.
My mom continued as though nothing had happened, "Men like younger girls. It's just the way they are. You know this. It'll only be for a while. Maybe three weeks."
"Yea."
"It won't be as bad as last time."
"I know."
I picked up my taco and tried to take a bite, but I couldn't; just the thought of 'last time' made throbbing bile rise in my throat.
I set my food down and stood, "I'll meet you in the car."
That was the end of the discussion.
That's usually how all of our conversations end: With her hitting me and me saying "I'll meet you in the car".
The last time she hit me she actually kind of whaled on me and left a few bruises. She was 'on the job' and I interrupted; she can't stand that. She loses pay.
I really didn't mean to.
I was trying to tell her that she'd left her clothes in the car.
She turned to her customer (some old, fat guy I don't even want to TRY to remember) and grabbed me by the shoulder, hard, fingers digging into my bare skin as she steered me into the hallway.
"What are you DOING?" she hissed, grabbing my arms and shaking me, "I told you NEVER to come in while I'm working!"
"I know, Mom," I said, "I know. I just-"
"Don't you EVER listen?!?"
"Mom, I-"
"You've always been such a rebel, always refusing to listen-"
By then she'd started bashing me, fists pelting my face, and I'd held my arms up to protect myself, stammering between blows, "Mom.Mom, wait.I.you left."
"Don't ever let me see you while I'm working, Rachael! Never!"
"Ok, Mom!"
My nose was bleeding freely onto the arms I held against my face, my already-tangled hair a matted mess in my wounded face.
"Good."
Mom gave me a final shove against the wall for good measure and, turning on her heel, walked back into the hotel room.
I stayed in the hallway for a second, finally letting myself cry, ignoring the pain throbbing throughout my body, and then I went back to the car and just sobbed face-down on the seats (that's why there was so much blood).
Now, I have two personalities, not like split personalities, but like two completely attached personalities that are the same person. Both of them are extremes, and with different people I'm different mixtures of both.
One is a total rebel, one of those wild child types who walks down the street and seems to attract trouble like a magnet does metal.
The other is a shy, sweet one, almost like one of those really lovable, bashful little kids you see hiding behind their mother's skirts at church. The one who's afraid of everything
At that moment, for the first time, I went completely rebel.
I had to.
It was a survival thing.
I looked up and just attained it, pushing my charming side aside, refusing suddenly to listen to anyone or be afraid of anything.
It was surprisingly easy.
I just reached into the junk drawer of the car, grabbed a bundle of cash, stuffed it into my pockets, pulled out a jacket, and ran.
And that's how I got to the McDonald's for dinner.
And that's how I saw the police report and saw how I was a suspected murder victim.
I liked all the attention, but hated the media.
I didn't want to be found.
I wanted to be left alone.
I just wanted to be able to be alone forever and control my own life. I wanted to just find a safe place (yea, I was a rebel, but that quiet, shy kid was still a part of me. I was scared) where I could settle down, find a job, and eventually go to school.
One thing I knew, I was not letting the state get a hold of me.
I was not going to a foster home, or an orphanage.
And most definitely not my mother.
Never my mother.
I was alone now.
The only person I could trust was myself.
I stood from my chair at McDonalds and threw away my trash, pulling my jacket tighter around me as the cold New York wind greeted me.
I'm not going to lie to you.
I cried that first night on the streets.
I cried so hard my jacket was soaked in minutes and my head throbbed in agony.
I sobbed myself to sleep under an interstate bridge and didn't wake up until dawn.
The good thing was, I didn't chicken out and crawl home, groveling, to Mommy.
No way.
I kept my head and woke up feeling actually a lot better (dark nights and cold winds can do stuff to a kid) and walked for another two miles before stopping at some cheap trucker's stop for breakfast.
After putting up with a few snide remarks and rude comments, I left that place feeling sick (the food there had to be seventy-five percent oil) and headed downtown.
Now, just try to imagine yourself in my place.
You've just run away from your no-good, lousy mother, you've got more cash than you've ever had in your life, you've just freshened up at a rest area, and you're in downtown New York City.
How do you feel?
That's what I thought.
Needless to say, I was more than a little ecstatic as I boarded the crowded subway, unable to stop smiling.
My adrenaline just wouldn't stop pumping! There were hundreds of people around me at all times, so I knew I was safe (if not about to be trampled), everywhere I turned there was something to do, I had cash in my pocket, it was a nice day, and I basically felt great.
That day was the best day I'd had in my sixteen years of existence.
I went where I wanted to go, ate what I wanted to eat, bought what I wanted to buy, slept where I wanted to sleep, and talked to whom I wanted to speak to.
I had no hateful mom to push me around and make me feel miserable.
I had no stupid, smelly men to wake me up during my naps (I slept in this great bookstore where this nice lady gave me some hot chocolate when I woke up; with Mom, whenever I took a nap in a car, one of her customers would come by and bang on the windows, demanding a refund).
I was freer then I had ever been in my life, and I loved it.
By the end of that day, I'd spent more money then I'd ever spent, had more fun then I'd ever had, and slept better then I'd ever slept.
It was sheer bliss.
Too bad it had to end, cuz that night was Hell.
Or worse.
After-hours, New York City has got to be one of the SCARIEST places on earth, and I'm not exaggerating.
All of the nice (if not pushy and rushing) businesspeople go home and are replaced by the homeless, the 'crazies', the prostitutes, and the murderers.
When I walked down the street that night, a ton of shadowy men whistled at me from the shadows and yelled at me to "come 'ere", but I ignored them and picked up the pace, trying to deafen my ears to the distant screams a few blocks away.
They were quite a few scantily dressed women who laughed as I passed by and even grabbed my shoulder as I passed, saying, "Hey, whatcha doin' out this late, Baby? Wanna job? Huh? We'll get you one. Lotsa men would like YOU."
I tore away from them as they roared with laughter and raced down an alley, looking over my shoulder.
There were a ton of drunken and drugged-up people back there, but they didn't notice as I ran past. A few teenage boys were fighting, yelling profanity as I passed and breaking bottles on the walls next to me.
My heart was pounding out of my chest by that time and I was gasping for breath, my rebel attitude slipping away and being quickly replaced by the scared one.
Before I'd even slipped away from the alley, a middle-aged, unshaven man reached out and grabbed me.
I stifled a scream and swallowed, watching him anxiously as he lowered his head drunkenly to mine and slurred, "There's a.a.a man.a goat.man."
"A.goat man?"
"NO!"
"No?"
"A man.bad goat.DON"T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!!!" he yelled over his shoulder to blank air.
I looked at the space he was gazing at, "There's no one there."
He shook me desperately, "Tell them to go away!"
I blinked, and then cleared my throat, "Ok.go away."
"Not me! Them!"
"Go away."
"Over there!"
By then, he was shaking me so hard that I couldn't focus.
"You're.hurting.me.!"
"STOP FOLLOWING ME!" the man shrieked, and then he threw me to the ground and took off, screaming.
Before I could even begin to get to my feet, another hand dropped on my shoulder, and then a gravely voice growled, "Get in the car now."
My head swam with confusion as my eyes settled on a nearby gray car, "Who are YOU?"
"Get in the car!"
"Let me go!"
I was lifted to my feet and roughly shoved forward as the voice hissed in my ear, "Get in now, or I'll spill your guts."
I felt cool metal on my side.
I struggled to get away, but his other hand came up and clamped over my mouth, pulling me over to the vehicle.
I'd never been in the situation of being kidnapped before, but my instincts screamed at me, so I savagely stepped back on the man's foot and kicked him, hard, in what I suspected to be his gut.
It wasn't.
He swore loudly, dropping me and falling to his knees, hands clasping.uh.I think you know.
I didn't even pause to kick him again; I simply scrambled to my feet and ran, ignoring his livid calls and warnings.
Eventually, I found a dumpster behind an old, abandoned building and I collapsed behind it, breathing hard as I drew my knees up to my chest.
"It's ok," I told myself, "They're gone. No one can hurt me. No one."
I burst into tears.
It had been maybe two hours and I'd already been attacked by almost half a dozen people. How was I supposed to survive on the streets if I coulnd;t even make it for a night?
It was at that moment that I most considered calling my mom's cell phone and going back home. I just wanted a safe place to stay. I just wanted a familiar face, a warm bed (or car), and protection.
However, I didn't have time even to properly consider that thought, as my fatigue eventually caught up with me and I slumped to the ground, dead asleep.
The wind bit at her tender, young skin like icy needles, driving stinging pinpricks into her bare arms and legs as she stumbled after her mother, wiping away the tears still fresh on her cheeks.
As they entered the cheap hotel, she sniffled, her unshed tears blocking her throat as her mother spoke to the person at the front desk.
In an instant, her hand was gripped by her mother's again and she was dragged down the hallway, numbered doors flashing past in a blur.
Her heart trilled weakly against her ribs as her mother stopped before a door and, after reading the number, smiled and nodded assuredly, "This is it."
Then she turned to her trembling daughter and kneeled before her, straightened her hair, "Now, just remember to do like I said and don't make him mad. Don't settle for less then two hundred, since we made a special trip up here, and don't let him know this is your first time. Understand?"
The child nodded slowly, tears trickling down her cheeks.
She wiped them away hurriedly, bile pounding in her throat.
Her mother lifted her chin with her hand, "Rachael, no tears. He'll lessen the pay. Don't let him know you're afraid. Just do the job. We need this money."
"Why can't you do it, Mommy?" Rachael whispered softly.
"I told you, men like younger girls!" snapped her mother.
"But, Mommy, you're young, and really pretty. Lots more then me."
"Nonsense. Look in that mirror and tell me you aren't pretty. Go on, look."
The mother roughly lifted her daughter up and pushed her towards a floor-to- ceiling mirror, where the girl shyly examined herself, frowning; how could this be her?
The pale, small girl in the mirror looked nothing like her.
Heavy makeup, scanty clothes, and long curled hair.
She was used to a tousled-haired, baggy-clothed, plain little girl looking back at her from the mirror.
Slowly, she lifted up her hand and touched her face; her reflection did the same.
She didn't like this.
A loud sob erupted from her mouth, and her mom immediately grabbed her and shook her harshly, "Stop that! We don't have time for this, we're already late! Stop that nonsense, get in there, and get the money!"
With a sharp slap and a rushed wiping of her face, the child was thrust into the dimly-lit room, eyes wide and body shaking.
It was a dingy, dark room that smelled strongly of liquor and smoke and was littered with dirty clothes and beer bottles.
The child swallowed hard and took a tentative step forward, trying not to stumble over her shaking legs.
On a large, unmade bed was an overweight, unshaven man of about forty with graying hair, frayed jeans, and a remote in his hand.
Rachael swallowed back a wail and cleared her throat softly, trying to look sexy.
The man glanced up and grinned, showing yellow teeth, "Hey, lookit you. You the 'entertainment' I was promised?"
Slowly, Rachael nodded.
"Well, good."
The man shifted, setting the remote on the end table and turning to face the girl before him, "How old are you?"
"T-ten."
The male chuckled, "Well, that'll do just fine."
Rachael slowly took a step back as the man stood and came towards her, reaching over her to lock the door.
"My.my boss said that.that I was too.that you weren't to.go all the way."
At those words, the man actually laughed, throwing his head back and advancing on Rachael menacingly, "DID she say that, now?!?"
Rachael nodded, "Yes. Cuz.cuz I'm too young to.to do that."
The men stopped before her, placing his hands on either side of her head and leaning down to face her, "Well, I guess since I'm the customer I should decide that, right?"
His breath smelled strongly of beer, and Rachael recoiled from him, turning and scrabbling for the doorknob; she knew already that it weas locked, but her brain had screamed at her to try SOMETHING.
"Mommy! MOMMY!"
In an instant his large arms were around her waist and she was hoisted up and carried away, screaming, and thrown onto the bed.
I don't suppose that you've ever had nightmares like that one, right? There really isn't much reason for you to have had one, and if you have, I'm very sorry.
There just isn't raison d'être for a teenager to have dreams like that.
Well, I did that night.
I did that night, and I did the night after, and the night after that.
It was exactly the same, in the same order, with the exact same words and sights and sounds and smells.
Now, why on earth would a sixteen year old girl have a dream like that?
Well, I told you my mom was a prostitute, and I told you that I ran away because of the so-called 'conversation' we had at Taco Bell.
Well, that dream wasn't fake; it's a 'repressed memory', as shrinks would say.
Yea, it really happened to me.
Yea, I was ten years old, yea my mom forced me to do it, and yea I was raped.
I hate even writing that word.
I never want to relieve that experience, and when my mom said I was going to, my mind kind of snapped.
I was willing to do almost anything to get out of that situation.
You don't have to feel sorry for me (you can if you WANT, but you don't have to), because I've kinda gotten over it now.
Of course, back then I hadn't.
Back then, I had that dream and I woke up with cold sweat trickling down my back and tears streaming down my cheeks and screams caught in my throat.
I had no one to hold me while I trembled under bridges or next to trashcans or in abandoned cars (I got lucky enough once). I just sat by myself and cried, trying hard to forget about that night, wishing that it had never happened, praying that someone would just care enough about me to help me.
No one did. You can't really expect them to; they didn't know I existed.
I was a homeless, almost invisible teen amongst the who-knows-how-many million others in New York City.
I eventually toughened up, like I had when I'd lived with my mom, and I got along fine by myself for the first week or so alone.
The dreams stopped, I found better places to sleep, I stopped getting attacked, and I basically survived.
If no one else took care of me, I'd take care of myself.
I'd figured that out after that night in the hotel with that man.
My mom never did come in to save me.
I came out sobbing and bleeding and thinking I was going to die, but all Mom cared about was that I'd gotten her five hundred dollars (the man had paid extra so she wouldn't sue).
I was forced to grow up by living with my mom.
I mean, I was born in a car, fed with a beer bottle (don't worry, it was still milk), and dressed with stolen clothes.
So, I guess you might say I've never been a kid before. I've never gotten to play with dolls (not that I really want to) or splash in rain puddles (never had time to) or just sit in my mom's lap and have a good cry (with MY mom?!?).
I turned thirty when I was five, and I've never changed since.
Prelude-
They never even found me.
Stupid cops.
Lousy, if you ask me.
Hardly did their jobs.
Attacked the car like a serial killer was lodged in there, smashed the windows in, glanced around, and then left, saying I was missing.
Duh.
You think?
By then, I was LONG gone, Baby.
LONG gone.
By then, I was half a day's walk north, about five miles west of Central Park, sitting in a McDonald's and eating a BigMac with some money I stole from my 'talented' mom.
Don't go judging me now, ok?
I'm not a bad kid.
I'm not a punk off the street who steals money and sleeps around with everyone.
That's my mom.
She got pregnant with me at sixteen, dropped out of highschool, earns a living 'making men's dreams come true', and beats the living crap out of me when she's drunk and high.
At least she used to beat the holy crap out of me.
Then I just snapped and ran off.
I just grabbed some money out of the car and beat it.
I was sixteen then, determined to be a better person then dear old mommy.
Anyway, while I was eating my sandwich and drinking my water (I don't do pop-sorry), I was kind of laughing at those loser cops who had suddenly come on the news and were talking about how they were desperately searching for me and how they WOULD help me, no matter what it took. Then my mom came on, all weepy and tearful, and started talking about how dear I was to her and how awful life would be without 'her baby girl'.
Then it showed shots of the mutilated car and a bloody mess inside (turns out I was a suspected murder victim-cool)
I giggled, shook my head, and lowered my hood closer to my face when some weird man looked over at me.
Ok, truth be told, I was terrified.
I was ready to start bawling and run back to mom, even if she would beat me to within an inch of my life.
I didn't know my next step.
I had no clue as to where I was going.
All I had were the clothes I was wearing, some-hundred dollars.and some other things that I was trying to figure out.
I just had to get out of there before.
Well.before mom made me into what she was.
I guess the entire reason I left was because of the conversation my mom had forced on me the night before.
The night had been an ok one; mom had gotten good jobs and I had only been hit a few times. We were eating at Taco Bell, sitting across from each other and pretty much trying to remain inconspicuous (at least I was; mom was flirting with men embarrassingly enough).
Suddenly, Mom cleared her throat and looked at me and forced a smile, which she never does.
I smiled back and kept eating, averting my gaze, knowing something BIG was happening.
Finally, mom spills the beans, "You know, Sweetie, we're.sorta low on cash."
"Yea?" I took a sip of water, "How so?"
"I.haven't been getting many.costumers."
"Then where you been all day? Shopping?"
"Don't start sassing me," she said softly, dangerously, and I closed my mouth, chewing.
Mom tried again, "What I mean is.I.could use some help."
I glanced at her, "Want me to go around wearing I sign that says, 'My mom's a whore, get some while you can'?"
Mom glared at me and snapped, "No!"
I shrugged, "What?"
"What I WANT is.I want a partner.someone to.to help me with the.the men."
I stared at her numbly, "What?"
Mom swallowed her food and took a drink before continuing, "I want you to help me with the men."
"Like what? Give them feet massages?
Mom stared at me coldly, "Don't pretend to be stupid, Rachael."
"I don't have to pretend. It's in my genes."
Mom reached across the table and slapped me, hard, across the face.
The Taco Bell was almost deserted, save one old man who was snoring in the corner, so no one noticed when I almost toppled from my chair from the impact of my mom's blow.
Tears of pain stung my eyes and I blinked them back, lifting my fingers to my now-bleeding lip.
I took in a sharp breath and sighed, sitting up slowly and keeping my gaze on my taco.
My mom continued as though nothing had happened, "Men like younger girls. It's just the way they are. You know this. It'll only be for a while. Maybe three weeks."
"Yea."
"It won't be as bad as last time."
"I know."
I picked up my taco and tried to take a bite, but I couldn't; just the thought of 'last time' made throbbing bile rise in my throat.
I set my food down and stood, "I'll meet you in the car."
That was the end of the discussion.
That's usually how all of our conversations end: With her hitting me and me saying "I'll meet you in the car".
The last time she hit me she actually kind of whaled on me and left a few bruises. She was 'on the job' and I interrupted; she can't stand that. She loses pay.
I really didn't mean to.
I was trying to tell her that she'd left her clothes in the car.
She turned to her customer (some old, fat guy I don't even want to TRY to remember) and grabbed me by the shoulder, hard, fingers digging into my bare skin as she steered me into the hallway.
"What are you DOING?" she hissed, grabbing my arms and shaking me, "I told you NEVER to come in while I'm working!"
"I know, Mom," I said, "I know. I just-"
"Don't you EVER listen?!?"
"Mom, I-"
"You've always been such a rebel, always refusing to listen-"
By then she'd started bashing me, fists pelting my face, and I'd held my arms up to protect myself, stammering between blows, "Mom.Mom, wait.I.you left."
"Don't ever let me see you while I'm working, Rachael! Never!"
"Ok, Mom!"
My nose was bleeding freely onto the arms I held against my face, my already-tangled hair a matted mess in my wounded face.
"Good."
Mom gave me a final shove against the wall for good measure and, turning on her heel, walked back into the hotel room.
I stayed in the hallway for a second, finally letting myself cry, ignoring the pain throbbing throughout my body, and then I went back to the car and just sobbed face-down on the seats (that's why there was so much blood).
Now, I have two personalities, not like split personalities, but like two completely attached personalities that are the same person. Both of them are extremes, and with different people I'm different mixtures of both.
One is a total rebel, one of those wild child types who walks down the street and seems to attract trouble like a magnet does metal.
The other is a shy, sweet one, almost like one of those really lovable, bashful little kids you see hiding behind their mother's skirts at church. The one who's afraid of everything
At that moment, for the first time, I went completely rebel.
I had to.
It was a survival thing.
I looked up and just attained it, pushing my charming side aside, refusing suddenly to listen to anyone or be afraid of anything.
It was surprisingly easy.
I just reached into the junk drawer of the car, grabbed a bundle of cash, stuffed it into my pockets, pulled out a jacket, and ran.
And that's how I got to the McDonald's for dinner.
And that's how I saw the police report and saw how I was a suspected murder victim.
I liked all the attention, but hated the media.
I didn't want to be found.
I wanted to be left alone.
I just wanted to be able to be alone forever and control my own life. I wanted to just find a safe place (yea, I was a rebel, but that quiet, shy kid was still a part of me. I was scared) where I could settle down, find a job, and eventually go to school.
One thing I knew, I was not letting the state get a hold of me.
I was not going to a foster home, or an orphanage.
And most definitely not my mother.
Never my mother.
I was alone now.
The only person I could trust was myself.
I stood from my chair at McDonalds and threw away my trash, pulling my jacket tighter around me as the cold New York wind greeted me.
I'm not going to lie to you.
I cried that first night on the streets.
I cried so hard my jacket was soaked in minutes and my head throbbed in agony.
I sobbed myself to sleep under an interstate bridge and didn't wake up until dawn.
The good thing was, I didn't chicken out and crawl home, groveling, to Mommy.
No way.
I kept my head and woke up feeling actually a lot better (dark nights and cold winds can do stuff to a kid) and walked for another two miles before stopping at some cheap trucker's stop for breakfast.
After putting up with a few snide remarks and rude comments, I left that place feeling sick (the food there had to be seventy-five percent oil) and headed downtown.
Now, just try to imagine yourself in my place.
You've just run away from your no-good, lousy mother, you've got more cash than you've ever had in your life, you've just freshened up at a rest area, and you're in downtown New York City.
How do you feel?
That's what I thought.
Needless to say, I was more than a little ecstatic as I boarded the crowded subway, unable to stop smiling.
My adrenaline just wouldn't stop pumping! There were hundreds of people around me at all times, so I knew I was safe (if not about to be trampled), everywhere I turned there was something to do, I had cash in my pocket, it was a nice day, and I basically felt great.
That day was the best day I'd had in my sixteen years of existence.
I went where I wanted to go, ate what I wanted to eat, bought what I wanted to buy, slept where I wanted to sleep, and talked to whom I wanted to speak to.
I had no hateful mom to push me around and make me feel miserable.
I had no stupid, smelly men to wake me up during my naps (I slept in this great bookstore where this nice lady gave me some hot chocolate when I woke up; with Mom, whenever I took a nap in a car, one of her customers would come by and bang on the windows, demanding a refund).
I was freer then I had ever been in my life, and I loved it.
By the end of that day, I'd spent more money then I'd ever spent, had more fun then I'd ever had, and slept better then I'd ever slept.
It was sheer bliss.
Too bad it had to end, cuz that night was Hell.
Or worse.
After-hours, New York City has got to be one of the SCARIEST places on earth, and I'm not exaggerating.
All of the nice (if not pushy and rushing) businesspeople go home and are replaced by the homeless, the 'crazies', the prostitutes, and the murderers.
When I walked down the street that night, a ton of shadowy men whistled at me from the shadows and yelled at me to "come 'ere", but I ignored them and picked up the pace, trying to deafen my ears to the distant screams a few blocks away.
They were quite a few scantily dressed women who laughed as I passed by and even grabbed my shoulder as I passed, saying, "Hey, whatcha doin' out this late, Baby? Wanna job? Huh? We'll get you one. Lotsa men would like YOU."
I tore away from them as they roared with laughter and raced down an alley, looking over my shoulder.
There were a ton of drunken and drugged-up people back there, but they didn't notice as I ran past. A few teenage boys were fighting, yelling profanity as I passed and breaking bottles on the walls next to me.
My heart was pounding out of my chest by that time and I was gasping for breath, my rebel attitude slipping away and being quickly replaced by the scared one.
Before I'd even slipped away from the alley, a middle-aged, unshaven man reached out and grabbed me.
I stifled a scream and swallowed, watching him anxiously as he lowered his head drunkenly to mine and slurred, "There's a.a.a man.a goat.man."
"A.goat man?"
"NO!"
"No?"
"A man.bad goat.DON"T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!!!" he yelled over his shoulder to blank air.
I looked at the space he was gazing at, "There's no one there."
He shook me desperately, "Tell them to go away!"
I blinked, and then cleared my throat, "Ok.go away."
"Not me! Them!"
"Go away."
"Over there!"
By then, he was shaking me so hard that I couldn't focus.
"You're.hurting.me.!"
"STOP FOLLOWING ME!" the man shrieked, and then he threw me to the ground and took off, screaming.
Before I could even begin to get to my feet, another hand dropped on my shoulder, and then a gravely voice growled, "Get in the car now."
My head swam with confusion as my eyes settled on a nearby gray car, "Who are YOU?"
"Get in the car!"
"Let me go!"
I was lifted to my feet and roughly shoved forward as the voice hissed in my ear, "Get in now, or I'll spill your guts."
I felt cool metal on my side.
I struggled to get away, but his other hand came up and clamped over my mouth, pulling me over to the vehicle.
I'd never been in the situation of being kidnapped before, but my instincts screamed at me, so I savagely stepped back on the man's foot and kicked him, hard, in what I suspected to be his gut.
It wasn't.
He swore loudly, dropping me and falling to his knees, hands clasping.uh.I think you know.
I didn't even pause to kick him again; I simply scrambled to my feet and ran, ignoring his livid calls and warnings.
Eventually, I found a dumpster behind an old, abandoned building and I collapsed behind it, breathing hard as I drew my knees up to my chest.
"It's ok," I told myself, "They're gone. No one can hurt me. No one."
I burst into tears.
It had been maybe two hours and I'd already been attacked by almost half a dozen people. How was I supposed to survive on the streets if I coulnd;t even make it for a night?
It was at that moment that I most considered calling my mom's cell phone and going back home. I just wanted a safe place to stay. I just wanted a familiar face, a warm bed (or car), and protection.
However, I didn't have time even to properly consider that thought, as my fatigue eventually caught up with me and I slumped to the ground, dead asleep.
The wind bit at her tender, young skin like icy needles, driving stinging pinpricks into her bare arms and legs as she stumbled after her mother, wiping away the tears still fresh on her cheeks.
As they entered the cheap hotel, she sniffled, her unshed tears blocking her throat as her mother spoke to the person at the front desk.
In an instant, her hand was gripped by her mother's again and she was dragged down the hallway, numbered doors flashing past in a blur.
Her heart trilled weakly against her ribs as her mother stopped before a door and, after reading the number, smiled and nodded assuredly, "This is it."
Then she turned to her trembling daughter and kneeled before her, straightened her hair, "Now, just remember to do like I said and don't make him mad. Don't settle for less then two hundred, since we made a special trip up here, and don't let him know this is your first time. Understand?"
The child nodded slowly, tears trickling down her cheeks.
She wiped them away hurriedly, bile pounding in her throat.
Her mother lifted her chin with her hand, "Rachael, no tears. He'll lessen the pay. Don't let him know you're afraid. Just do the job. We need this money."
"Why can't you do it, Mommy?" Rachael whispered softly.
"I told you, men like younger girls!" snapped her mother.
"But, Mommy, you're young, and really pretty. Lots more then me."
"Nonsense. Look in that mirror and tell me you aren't pretty. Go on, look."
The mother roughly lifted her daughter up and pushed her towards a floor-to- ceiling mirror, where the girl shyly examined herself, frowning; how could this be her?
The pale, small girl in the mirror looked nothing like her.
Heavy makeup, scanty clothes, and long curled hair.
She was used to a tousled-haired, baggy-clothed, plain little girl looking back at her from the mirror.
Slowly, she lifted up her hand and touched her face; her reflection did the same.
She didn't like this.
A loud sob erupted from her mouth, and her mom immediately grabbed her and shook her harshly, "Stop that! We don't have time for this, we're already late! Stop that nonsense, get in there, and get the money!"
With a sharp slap and a rushed wiping of her face, the child was thrust into the dimly-lit room, eyes wide and body shaking.
It was a dingy, dark room that smelled strongly of liquor and smoke and was littered with dirty clothes and beer bottles.
The child swallowed hard and took a tentative step forward, trying not to stumble over her shaking legs.
On a large, unmade bed was an overweight, unshaven man of about forty with graying hair, frayed jeans, and a remote in his hand.
Rachael swallowed back a wail and cleared her throat softly, trying to look sexy.
The man glanced up and grinned, showing yellow teeth, "Hey, lookit you. You the 'entertainment' I was promised?"
Slowly, Rachael nodded.
"Well, good."
The man shifted, setting the remote on the end table and turning to face the girl before him, "How old are you?"
"T-ten."
The male chuckled, "Well, that'll do just fine."
Rachael slowly took a step back as the man stood and came towards her, reaching over her to lock the door.
"My.my boss said that.that I was too.that you weren't to.go all the way."
At those words, the man actually laughed, throwing his head back and advancing on Rachael menacingly, "DID she say that, now?!?"
Rachael nodded, "Yes. Cuz.cuz I'm too young to.to do that."
The men stopped before her, placing his hands on either side of her head and leaning down to face her, "Well, I guess since I'm the customer I should decide that, right?"
His breath smelled strongly of beer, and Rachael recoiled from him, turning and scrabbling for the doorknob; she knew already that it weas locked, but her brain had screamed at her to try SOMETHING.
"Mommy! MOMMY!"
In an instant his large arms were around her waist and she was hoisted up and carried away, screaming, and thrown onto the bed.
I don't suppose that you've ever had nightmares like that one, right? There really isn't much reason for you to have had one, and if you have, I'm very sorry.
There just isn't raison d'être for a teenager to have dreams like that.
Well, I did that night.
I did that night, and I did the night after, and the night after that.
It was exactly the same, in the same order, with the exact same words and sights and sounds and smells.
Now, why on earth would a sixteen year old girl have a dream like that?
Well, I told you my mom was a prostitute, and I told you that I ran away because of the so-called 'conversation' we had at Taco Bell.
Well, that dream wasn't fake; it's a 'repressed memory', as shrinks would say.
Yea, it really happened to me.
Yea, I was ten years old, yea my mom forced me to do it, and yea I was raped.
I hate even writing that word.
I never want to relieve that experience, and when my mom said I was going to, my mind kind of snapped.
I was willing to do almost anything to get out of that situation.
You don't have to feel sorry for me (you can if you WANT, but you don't have to), because I've kinda gotten over it now.
Of course, back then I hadn't.
Back then, I had that dream and I woke up with cold sweat trickling down my back and tears streaming down my cheeks and screams caught in my throat.
I had no one to hold me while I trembled under bridges or next to trashcans or in abandoned cars (I got lucky enough once). I just sat by myself and cried, trying hard to forget about that night, wishing that it had never happened, praying that someone would just care enough about me to help me.
No one did. You can't really expect them to; they didn't know I existed.
I was a homeless, almost invisible teen amongst the who-knows-how-many million others in New York City.
I eventually toughened up, like I had when I'd lived with my mom, and I got along fine by myself for the first week or so alone.
The dreams stopped, I found better places to sleep, I stopped getting attacked, and I basically survived.
If no one else took care of me, I'd take care of myself.
I'd figured that out after that night in the hotel with that man.
My mom never did come in to save me.
I came out sobbing and bleeding and thinking I was going to die, but all Mom cared about was that I'd gotten her five hundred dollars (the man had paid extra so she wouldn't sue).
I was forced to grow up by living with my mom.
I mean, I was born in a car, fed with a beer bottle (don't worry, it was still milk), and dressed with stolen clothes.
So, I guess you might say I've never been a kid before. I've never gotten to play with dolls (not that I really want to) or splash in rain puddles (never had time to) or just sit in my mom's lap and have a good cry (with MY mom?!?).
I turned thirty when I was five, and I've never changed since.