cherry bomb ▸ k. anderson ✓

just a girl

Oh, I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite
So don't let me have any rights

•·················•·················•

CHAPTER ONE

People always think nothing bad will ever happen to them.

They watch true crime documentaries and think "This'll never happen to me. I'll never be murdered." But why? Why do we think we're the exception?

Is it because we think we're better than them? Is it because we think we can defend ourselves and survive? Are we built up to believe that the bad will never happen to us? That it'll never be our names on the tongue of a detective or a true crime junkie?

We always think that nobody will break into our houses. That we aren't sitting docile in the palm of a sadists' hands. When the truth is that we're all in the line of fire when it comes to crime. You, sitting at home, could be as susceptible to being murdered as a lone woman in the streets of Brooklyn.

But why do we think we just... aren't?

When you're laying on the road, slowly bleeding out in the dark of the night, you question a lot of things in life. The lies, the things we've been told to calm down, the "There's no monster under your bed".

Truth is, there is a monster under your bed. But why would somebody admit that? They don't want to deal with you and your fear so they lie to you and bring you from the edge of the cliff.

But, the truth fucking sucks. Don't search for it if you're going to be all pissy when you don't like what you see. Know you're fucking up the illusion of happiness when you look past what you assumed something was.

And don't trust a man's word. Especially when the FBI has been investigating him.

He isn't misunderstood.

He's an asshole.

// DECEMBER, 2016: BROOKFIELD HEIGHTS, MICHIGAN //

The bar was depressing. Angeline couldn't stand being in there for another second. She had gone there to relax - and by "relax" she means "get drunk" - only to be pestered by college frat boys and old men.

Pickings were slim in Brookfield Heights, anyway. Angeline couldn't imagine how hard it'd be to find a partner in this hellhole.

Standing outside of Gold Star Bar, Angeline lights her cigarette and puffs on it. Leaning back against the wall of the building, the December air makes her regret wearing a white shirt with shorts.

Scuffing her boots against the falling apart pavement, she hears a man approach her. She tries to ignore him, her lips letting out a puff of cigarette smoke.

He notices she wears a tattered white shirt with short black shorts and torn fishnets. He wasn't sure if it was one of those purposeful tearing things or if she had actually torn them. Either way, he found women like this fun. She wore combat books as well and had a green and black flannel on her shoulders. Through the white shirt, he notices she had odd bumps on her chest.

"They're nipple piercings." Angeline tells him, noticing his invasive staring. "They're bars. Usually I like when people stare but I'm getting a very stalker-y vibe from you." She says to the man.

"Not a stalker, just a normal guy." He clarifies, his eyes jumping to her face. She had black hair that flowed over her shoulders and framed her face. With brown eyes, full lips, and slightly dark skin, Kai found himself intrigued.