22 Hours of Happiness

1 || Self-Destruction Plan of Happiness

"Hold on a second, will ya?" the Officer points up a finger to me before sliding to the other side of the room, to the left corner, with his chair. Then he picks up a telephone nearby and talk. His chin is on the palm of his right hand, the other hand holds the telephone.

I huff for a moment, and an old Mexican-looking lady next to my right catches my interest.

She's about five feet one tall, you can say she's pretty thin. Some of her white hairs are peeking through her original dark hair that is pulled in a low ponytail. The hairband she's using is from Claire's I absolutely can tell, because it looks exactly like Myra's, my step-Mom.

The outfit she's wearing is very, ridiculously ugly.

Shit, now I feel bad.

No, she's not wearing the right- or let's just say ugly. Yes.

But who the hell cares? Maybe deep down inside this woman rocks? We never know-

"Miss," the Officer cuts my talking-to-myself time.

I turn my eyes to his, "Yes?"

"We're gonna be looking for those stuffs while you're gonna wait twenty-four hours until the report to the address you gave me. And your credit card and such, are already safe. So no need to worry, we'll do our best," he explains.

I nod, "Yeah, well, I have- like a hundred and forty seven bucks in there. Also not to mention my phone's in there too. Oh, and my goddamn bra!" I sound way too excited, and it's completed by my forced smile.

The Officer shrugs, "Not our delinquency you were pretty crummy on taking care of you things,"

I roll my eyes and sigh, "Right, sorry. Didn't mean to blame it all on you. Thanks a lot, though, Officer," I smile, in realization of me being so rude to him.

He nod.

I walk out of the police precinct looking like a rich-ass young adult, feeling like a fucking exiled daughter of somebody.

My step-brother's boyfriend's apartment is on the East Village, and I'm planning on walking- yes. I'm planning on walking from the Upper East Side which will take about an hour and a half (the sudden 'im-tired-and-gonna-faint' stops are excluded) for me since it's 3.9 miles far.

But, well it's better than having to walk back to my house in North Carolina which is almost 516 miles away.

This kind of self-destruction plan is probably a casual thing to a New Yorker. But not me. As I told you, this is a self-destruction plan of mine.

Because I have enough of my important stuffs (those Reese's are counted) being stolen, I decide to carry my backpack in front of me. So, yeah, I must've look like a- I don't wanna say it.

My golden hair that used to be a nice-to-the-eyes bun is now a messy shit. I just notice that I still have my sunglasses on top of my head, so I quickly take it down and slip it on the v - neck part of my t - shirt.

I put my left hand to the inside of my left pocket, and suddenly my mind flashes back to the moment when I, stupidly, put the hotdog's change into my wallet instead of my jeans' pocket. If only-

WOW.

I felt something-

God, yes. Thank You, Lord. I have sinned a lot of fucki- wait, no. I should not say that. I am in the middle of a graceful moment in my life.

I let out my hand and my eyes, who are I bet full of glittery sparks of happiness, catch the MetroCard that my step-brother's boyfriend gave me right before he and Jeff, my step-brother, left me at the station.

I feel like giving out a speech in front of everybody, and I'll pretend like this MetroCard is my Oscar. It wouldn't bother me, to be honest, but I need to go to that subway station that's not pretty far from the spot I'm standing on.

You know, this is probably the shittiest yet luckiest day of my life.

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