Black and Blue

Chapter 4 Dreadlocks

   When I came to, I realized that I'm still in the dirt cellar room. The bleeding stopped but a new bruise formed.

   I cough and carefully rub my eyes from the dust floating around the dark room.

   Wait, dark room. That means the Demon is out drinking again. He won't be back until morning. I can escape.

   I search around the room for the Phillips screwdriver I leave in here at times when I have to get out. I shift my hands back and forth a long the dirt until I found the smooth, cold metal. I pick up the screwdriver and unscrew the vent that lead from the cellar to the backyard. I squeeze my way through the small opening, brush off - as much as I could - of dirt from my pants and sweatshirt, and gladly left Hell.

~~~~

I get off the bus in the central city. I look around at the tall buildings and skyscrapers. There's everything someone sees in a classic city at night. Beautiful towers with different lights shining from it. People flagging down a cab ride home. Late night shoppers carelessly spending their money. Homeless begging for anything. Drunks stumbling around the streets and throwing up. Prostitutes looking for their next customer. Gangsters ruling the streets and flirts with any young women that passes by. Everything.

   A fifteen girl like me would be afraid to walk around a ghetto scenery like this. She would bring as many people with her to feel safe, thinking that she'd get rape or mugged. But I'm used to this stuff. It's a whole lot better then Hell.

   I picked up an empty can and sat cross legged in front of an old building, placing the can about a half a foot from me. I look over to my right and see a homeless sleeping - possibly dead - a little further away from me. I noticed they had a piece of cardboard underneath their head and a marker not so far from them. I carefully slide the cardboard from his or her head - couldn't tell the difference - and snatched the marker of the ground.

   I went back to my spot and sat down cross legged again. I scratched the marker across the cardboard.

   Sixteen and pregnant.

   It's not true. I'm not sixteen or pregnant. I may be clueless at times, but I'm not stupid. Apparently, people take pity on girls who are pregnant at such a young age, were abandon by their boyfriend, and kicked out of their parents' house.

   I read what I wrote in my cursive-like handwriting. I cringe. I know someone like this, I thought to myself. I shook the person out of my head and flip the cardboard over, showing the side with the writing to those who pass by.

   About ten minutes of playing the car game and waiting for someone to pass by and look at my sign, a thirty something years old couple stops in front of me.

   "Oh, honey, look at this poor girl," the women said to her husband.

   "Uh huh," he replied lost-like. He doesn't even look at my sign or me to see what was going on. I trace my eyes to where the man's eyes are staring at. They led me right to a teenage girl in a belly shirt and dangerous short skirt, leaning against a wall, texting. The wife doesn't even noticed her husband drooling over a girl half his age.

   That's just sick. You're married, I thought to him.

   "We should give her something," the wife pleaded.

   The husbands eyes and mine snap to her. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead," the husband said as if he's always been listening to her.

   The wife searches in her purse while the husband's eyes go back to the teenager with drool dripping from his mouth.