In For It.

Caught

You're like half asleep right now, and it's too late at night to be wandering around the house, yet you're hungry.

This is what you get for not eating your dad's mysterious looking stew.

You knew there was no (cooked) food in the house. So much for living in an 'ingredients household.' You really should've just ate some of the stew with the mystery meat before your parents took all to work with them. They were both doctors at Brooklyn HC, so they worked ridiculous shifts.

This is how you often found yourself home alone, no supervision—

A teen like yourself shouldn't need any, but your late night activities get wild.

—No curfew, no bedtime, etc. You just knew you usually needed to be responsible enough to get up early enough for school.

As the hunger made itself a more prominent issue for you, the more the drowsiness faded away. You weren't too tired now, just hungry. You thought for a second about going out to get food.

Doordash this late at night was bound to be expensive and time consuming. You were too hungry, edging the verge of hangry, to give a shit about Brooklyn's rising crime rates.

A girl like you could be snatched up, beaten, threatened or worse— but you knew if you just kept your head down and ignored all would be fine. Or at least you hoped. Nah, you grew up here, of course you knew how to stay safe.

Preparing to leave the house, you slip your light pink crocs on and draw on an all black hoodie. You chose not to tame your hair, and no makeup of course as it was almost 2 hours from midnight, who's putting on makeup at this time? Although half the reason you left those out was so you looked as wild and crazy as possible so men left you alone.

You seriously pray you don't run into anyone from school. But what would they be doing out at this hour? Surely they cared about the dangers of Brooklyn at this time of night.

You walk out the door, forgetting to lock it, and the cold night's wind was like a slap in your face. There was no reason you should be able to see your breath in front of you.

You walk about a third of a mile, passing apartment complexes with not a single light shining out of the windows. No one was really out walking the streets right now, 'cept for a few homeless people, stray animals and crackheads. As you cautiously pass an alleyway, the icy huff you let out trailing along with you, you spot the barely working neon sign of your favorite 24-hour bodega.

From this distance you could see a few people inside the store, not packed by any means but not empty. While walking up to the store you think about what you'll get.

I been craving a beef patty. How much is that again? I'll get a busta too.

You open the door and the added air conditioning, on top of the fan above the door, and the already cold weather nearly freezes and crystallizes you then and there. You make it past the doorway, of course.

You head for the snack aisle, wanting to pick up some random barbecue potato chips and sourpatch kids. You then started your unfortunate journey to the coldest part of the bodega, the refrigerated section, to pick up a busta.

You open up the fridge, quickly grabbing a busta to spend as little time in the cold air as you can and try to shut it quickly, arm still on the door handle, before you realize someone's come up behind you.

You whip your head around quickly, guard back up cause there's no way you 'bout to get kidnapped tonight. You lock eyes with the taller figure and oh my—