Subway Surfers (ON HOLD)

Prologue, kinda.

If my father weren't the stupid asshole he is, I wouldn't be where I am today. Fortunately, my father is a stupid asshole.

I was 8 years old when my father left my mother and I. We used to be happy. Not that my mom and I aren't now - sometimes - but it was a different happy. It was the kind that nothing could ruin, the kind of laughter and innocence and untarnished promises... But that's gone now. It left with my jackass of a dad. Stephen Johansson left my beautiful, delicate mother for some disgusting middle-aged stripper he met on the subway. "I'm in love, hon, I can't help how I feel about Denise. I'm so sorry and I will always love you." Even at eight years of age, I knew that was bullshit. He left me to tape my mom back together with whatever I could manage - reassuring words, better than average grades, staying out of trouble. It was easy being a stubborn 8 year old, but being fifteen and stubborn? Easier said than done.

We moved the summer after the divorce into a huge city - meaning new friends, new streets and new rules. Luckily, I'm a fast learner. The girls at school are mean, the teachers at school are stupid, and the lunches at school make the shit in the gutters look edible. Traffic is a way of life, creeps are everywhere, and the lights and noise never stop, despite my prayers. My mother and I moved into a small, but homey and almost lavish, townhouse. My mom always had a taste for the finer things in life. I helped cook, clean, whatever was needed to keep our home decent. Mom drank. She had never liked alcohol before the divorce, but evidently, she did after it. She favored 18 year old scotch. Now, everytime I even get a whiff of it I feel sick to my stomach. I would come home from school terrified, finding her slumped over the kitchen table mumbling. Being only ten at the time her alcoholism peaked, I, frankly, was scared shitless. She could die, or do something foolish to hurt other people or me. One morning I walked into my 5th grade class bawling, and when my teacher asked what was wrong, I told her that my pet turtle had died that morning. No way I was going to tell my dumb teacher that my mother had threatened to kill me had I not retrieved another bottle of 18 from the upstairs bathroom cabinet. No way in hell; I was smarter than that. How it got out that Mom had a problem is beyond me. But somehow, and damn to hell the person who let it slip, Ashley Reginald found out.

Ashley Reginald is the kind of person that makes you believe in hell. She is the reason for the word "she-demon". She's a perky, preppy, popular, rich brunette - complete with a high end Mercedes and a mile long line of guys (and some girls) waiting to kiss her Louboutins. Absolutely revolting. In eighth grade, her "best friend" Siena Jackson borrowed her BCBG tights, and accidently ripped them near the ankle. What did Ashley do? Start a web of rumors, which in her deranged mind, was sufficient payback. According to her highness, Siena slept with Ash Walton, a junior, had toxic shock, didn't wear deodarent or shave, and was very likely pregnant. Poor Siena went to a psychialogist for 3 weeks and moved away about a month after the leggings incident. As for me, I'm a lesbian who wants attention; I eat food out of trash cans and sleep on the subway with my alcoholic whore of a mother. Everyone knows she had a problem. She's stopped. We're okay now. The scotch stench still hangs onto both of our clothes, though. Ashley fucking Reginald is the reason I hate this city. The reason I despise every soul in my school. She is the reason no one will ever approach me, for fear that I might mug or try to make out with one of them. I have a special place in my heart, deep down for that bitch.

Don't get me wrong, I love, too. Barely, but it's there. My hatred for humanity is spared on two people and one place.