Broken Pieces (Interracial)

Chapter One: Meet Alia

Alia's POV

It's finally the weekend, so I usually just go to Union Station, get on the train, and walk around downtown with my guitar. I walk downstairs getting ready to leave, but then Eileen calls out to me, 

“Alia, sweetie, are you okay? You seemed pretty upset yesterday.”

 I smile and nod, “Yeah, I wasn't feeling to well so I needed some time alone, I'm sorry...”

She puts her hand on my shoulder, “Oh no, sweetheart it's okay. I totally understand, but you know if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.”

 I nod, “Yeah, I know. And when I need to talk you'll be the first person I'll talk to.”

Eileen is trying so hard to be the best mother figure to me, and I need to give her the benefit of the doubt, because if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be here.

*

*

*

I wave goodbye, and drive out to union station. When the train finally arrives, I pick a cart with very few people. I sit crisscrossed on the seat, and I start strumming my guitar. When I play Little Things, a drunken man comes toward me. His breath smells horrible, I want to gag. His eyes are bloodshot red, and he is wobbling all over the place. When he makes his way to me, he starts to speak.

“W—what are you doiiiing?!!”

I look at him, “I…uh, I'm playing my guitar?”

He laughs, “I—I meaaaan…what was that shiiiit you were playing??”

 I am shaken by his words, but I respond to his question, “It was, Little Things—by One Direction.”

He roars in laughter,

“Ha ha...you listen to that traaash!? Aren't—aren’t…aren’t you suppose to listen to...to music like, Jay-Z and…and Kanye West—you knoooow…rap music?”

I get angry, and stand up

“First of all, One Direction is not trash. They are an amazing group with incredible talent. So don't you ever call them trash…ever! And second, I am sick and tired of everyone expecting me to like rap just because I live on the South Side of Chicago. Jesus Christ!”

The man pushes me to the ground, I am shocked.

He yells, “L—listen you p—piece of crap…you—you don't taaaalk to me like that!”

I whimper, “Just leave me alone.”

The man punches me in the arm, hard. “N—no…having—I’m having sooo much fun wa—watching you in fear and pain...”

I prevent tears from flowing down my face, “Please, leave me alone.”

Suddenly, a girl behind him screams at him,

“Hey, she said leave her alone!”

The drunken man turns around, and charges toward her, but she doesn’t flinch one bit she just crosses her arms and smirks as she says,

“I'll call the police if you lay another finger on her or if you lay a finger on me.”

The man shrugs, and leaves our cart. The girl sits next to me; I turn to her and smile.

“Thanks, you didn't have to though…”

She nods, “I know, but I heard what he said to you, and I kind go through the same thing. People in my school think just because I'm Filipino I listen only to K-Pop, but honestly I think it’s to mainstream for me. But I do love One Direction.”