Wanted For Pleasure

Chapter One: who the fuck is Megan?

"No amount of security is worth the suffering of a mediocre life chained to a routine that has killed your dream"

Morgan Ann Bennett

Another morning waking up in a twin-sized bed. That meant another morning with an aching back, some thanks to my E cup sized breasts, too. While I was thankful, I sometimes wish I could chop them off.

It wasn't all bad, at least I woke up at all, right?

Monday's weren't my favorites, work was slow. Plus my shift was only four hours today, too, so I wasn't going to make much.

Cracking any and every body part I could, I felt relieved.

Ready to start the day, I let my blonde hair down from the bun that had become a mess in my sleep, and massaged my scalp.

Everything ached, I couldn't wait to get in a hot shower!

Once I lazily made my bed, I stepped into my slippers and trudged across the carpeted floor.

The Terrian-colored carpets throughout the entire house were all old, brittle and stained, had no more cushion to them.
Hell, everything in the three bedroom house was old.
My closet door was off the hinges and had no door handle on either side. My ceiling fan spun in the wrong direction, not generating cool air ever.

Two of three windows in the living room couldn't stay up unless something was wedged under it, same with the one in the kitchen by the dining table.

In the bathroom, there were three cabinets. The one in the middle had a different knob because when Callie bought them from Lowe's, she just dug in a bin and pulled out three that were black and about the same size.

Let's see, what else? Our microwave handle broke off one night after Callie's drunken antics. Ah, the dishwasher hadn't worked in years. Or maybe it did, I wouldn't know because the last time we used it, soap filled the floor and Callie feared it would cause damage so she said we couldn't use it ever again. That and she said it ran the electric bill up.

The air conditioning was a wild concept to her, as you can imagine. Which, that is beyond me considering we live in Arizona and it's late May where it reaches ninety-nine degrees regularly. It's dry heat, though, not humid, so we could stand when it got up to a hundred and seven degrees, or so.

Callie was cheap but not because she cared about saving money or she had goals. No, because she rarely went to work to collect a paycheck to have money to pay for good things.

I say that and yet I will never call her "lazy." Do you know how offensive that can be to a depressed person?

Callie has Dysthymia:

A mild but long-term form of depression.
Dysthymia is defined as a low mood occurring for at least two years, along with at least two other symptoms of depression.

She basically hates herself, hates her life, resents her daughter, and wishes she weren't here.

Of course she wasn't always like that. She used to be fun, love life just for the hell of it. I used to look up to her and dream about being half as cool as her when I got older.

I wanna say it was about six months after we moved out that I started noticing she wasn't herself.

Our parents sent us pity money, enough to get the house. We thanked them the first few times, then cut communication. They only did it because they mostly felt sorry for letting me leave but knew it was too late. We never had any papers signed emancipating me from them, either. So I guess you could call me a runaway.
The money stopped coming once I turned eighteen.