TOO YOUNG TO BE SO SAD(ECCEDENTESIAST)

THREE

He steadily advanced, clutching the blood-stained hockey stick in his hand, the scraping sound it emitted sending shivers down my spine. Concealed in my hiding spot, I pressed my tiny hands against my mouth, desperate to stifle any gasp or noise. "Come out here, you stupid bitch!" he yelled, the stick smashing objects as he moved. Tears welled in my eyes, and I silently implored myself to stay silent, to not betray my presence. I strained to maintain composure, but then I saw my younger sister watching, her eyes wide with fear.

I signaled for her to flee, but she remained frozen, crying, and calling out for me, inadvertently drawing his attention. My heart raced as he closed in on her, his grip tightening on her small form. The sickening sound of impact echoed as he struck her forcefully in the abdomen. She screamed, and in a rush of adrenaline and protectiveness, I bolted from my hiding place, reaching for the nearest solid object to defend her. Before I could react, he swung the hockey stick towards my head, and my sister's terrified voice filled the air.

I abruptly woke up, drenched in sweat, taking in my surroundings to confirm that it was just a dream. With a sigh of relief, I left my bed and prepared to start my day.

Descending the stairs, I packed lunch for my sister and grabbed a few snacks for myself. Thankfully, he wasn't up yet, likely still recovering from last night's escapade at the club with his companions. Sipping my apple juice, I waited for my sister to finish her strawberry pancakes.

While cleaning my glass, the creaking sound of his door reached my ears. I involuntarily flinched, my skin crawling with a potent mix of discomfort and revulsion. It seemed luck wasn't on my side, delivering a double dose of distress in one morning.

"Morning, Dad," my sister greeted cheerfully. Setting down the glass to dry, I took a steadying breath, plastering a forced smile on my face as I turned to confront my ultimate fear. "Good morning. I've made you a honey drink," I said to my sister, shifting my focus to her. "We should head out. You wouldn't want to be late, would you?"

"Hey, Dad, can you try to come home earlier? It's really cold out there on the streets," my sister chimed in as she picked up her bag. I felt my heart plummet, dread settling heavily within me. My dad smiled at her, then approached me, squeezing my shoulder with a grip that was as uncomfortable as his hushed reprimand. "What have you been teaching her?! You should take responsibilities, you know? Are you still as useless as ever?" His breath, reeking of alcohol, brushed against my ear, and I fought against the urge to cringe from both the pain in my shoulder and the unpleasant scent.

Suppressing any reaction, I let out a laugh – perhaps a bit too much. There was nothing remotely amusing, but my goal was to ensure my sister stayed with us. "Dad can manage himself just fine. We're going to be late. Come on," I said, steering the conversation away from his negativity.

Our routine was to leave the house together, a way to make sure my dad remained oblivious to the fact that we attended school separately. Dropping her off at the intersection near the school, I watched her board a taxi before driving off to handle a bit of business before heading to school. I still had one bag of fentanyl to sell.

It was already 10 am, an hour after school had started. I hurriedly packed my things, ready to leave, when I accidentally collided with someone, causing my goods to spill out of my bag and scatter on the floor. As I crouched down to retrieve them, I noticed the distinctive shoes he was wearing – not the typical choice for a dealer, especially not younger ones. When I looked up, I was met with the unmistakable badge of a police officer. In a panic, I pulled up my mask and sprinted down to the trap house, urgently yelling 'CODE RED.' Soon enough, other officers arrived, some chasing me while the rest harassed those who were slower. I raced as fast as my legs could carry me, reaching my car and speeding away. I carefully navigated through shortcuts, evading CCTVs, until I reached a secure location where I burned the clothes I was wearing and swapped them for a fresh outfit. It was a precaution I learned from Perez' Del, one of the top seven rules he shared with me about being a dealer – especially vital after establishing a fake alibi.

Two miles away from school, I accessed my secret ARS (Automobile Repair Shop), altering the car's color, changing the license plate to an unregistered one, and getting the car thoroughly cleaned. Unfortunately, I had to use the remaining drugs in my car to pay off the repairman. It's tough to pay in kind, but funds were tight.

Rule number two: Always take precautions and change any possible identifiers on your transportation, including clothes, when picture evidence becomes a concern.

I drove back to school, bearing the weight of losing around ten thousand dollars' worth of drugs to the police. I paid off the school's gatekeeper discreetly for him to allow me in. Walking into school, I felt utterly helpless. The trap house was no longer an option for me; I wasn't feeling it. Finding a new street to conduct business safely would probably take another three weeks. It's frustrating. I checked my secret account, and the balance wasn't encouraging. Plus, I'd promised Isabelle a PES 5 by the end of the month. Things were becoming dire. Meanwhile, I hoped that the people who were caught would handle their situations without involving other dealers.

RULE NUMBER THREE: Avoid forming close relationships or making friends at a trap house to prevent complications when things go awry. Run your business and leave the street. You owe them no friendship.

I let out a heavy sigh and decided to take the last three morphines I had before heading to the restroom to get a little buzz before class. Slipping in through the back door, I entered the classroom as inconspicuously as possible, though he still managed to spot me. Collapsing my head onto my desk, I drifted into my own thoughts, contemplating how to secure funds and survive the next three weeks. The idea of pretending to work part-time to find a new street didn't sit well with me, but perhaps...

"Crystal?" My name being called snapped me back to reality. "Your turn," my homeroom teacher announced, handing over my paper to me. I hadn't put much effort into it, but was this new teacher aware that I'd never been called upon during class before, or was he just messing around? 'Forget it,' I muttered to myself, dragging myself to the front of the class. All eyes were on me, seemingly eager for a moment like this to emerge. Everyone was looking up, except me – the discomfort of the teachers having a sea of eyes staring while mine remained downcast became clear.

I cleared my throat, the nerves making my hands tremble as I opened my paper. "Um, I didn't really write much because, um..." I trailed off, seeking a sympathetic glance from the teacher. However, he paid no attention to my silent pleas. Anxiety surged within me, and I struggled to control my quivering hands. Let's just get this over with.

"Topic: Your desired career and your life in the next five years. So, this is my life, and I want you to know that I'm both happy and sad, and I'm still trying to figure out how that's possible." I moistened my lips, glancing up at the teacher and the now puzzled students. "The end," I concluded, an uncomfortable silence hanging heavily in the air, their stares consuming every part of me. "So depressing," a girl with brown hair and bright red lipstick remarked, rolling her eyes, prompting laughter and hushed murmurs among the others. Speak up, let me hear what you're saying.

"Quiet!" Granny shouted, silencing the chaotic noise. "Does anyone have any questions for Crystal?" I silently prayed that nobody would ask, just this once, and I vowed to behave. "I do," a rather unsettling guy with a bizarrely cocky grin spoke up, his demeanor sending shivers down my spine. "I'm curious if that means our typically reserved top student has no aspirations or plans for the next five years?"

"Perhaps she's contemplating an exit within the next five years," remarked the girl with fiery red lipstick, her words stinging with a painful truth. "I'm not destined for longevity, and it was never part of my intentions. So why even entertain thoughts of a future?"
I smiled

"Why does she consistently achieve the highest grades if she lacks foresight?" questioned another, puzzled by the girl's relentless pursuit of academic excellence despite her apparent lack of aspirations.

"Why does she put in such arduous effort to become the top student when her direction is unclear? Does this mean she attends school in vain? What an enigma!" Their barrage of questions continued unabated, each query striking my mind with a jarring force. Their critiques, far from empty, wounded me deeply, worsened by the fact that I had exposed myself to them during a moment of emotional vulnerability. Their words burrowed into my thoughts relentlessly. Pulling my hoodie over my head, I retreated to my seat, impervious to their trivial stares.

The lunch bell interrupted the turmoil, ushering in the worst possible scenario. "Crystal, my office, immediately!" commanded Granny, his announcement met with my audible groan. Why now? This is my existence, and I certainly don't require adult intervention. It was the very reason I tackled that assignment—to avoid precisely this, the harsh hand of fate...