Street Life

Part 1: Run...

I don't have time to explain my life story...
I don't want to either.
I'm running away today... and you don't need to know why.
I'm leaving my 'home' in hopes of a better life.
Anything is better than this... so it should be easy.

"Ugh..." I grumbled, smelling smoke from downstairs.

Before my 'family' left to go have fun somewhere without me, my 'parents' told me "You better have dinner ready for us and your sister... or you know what will happen."

And I do know.
They will beat me up.
They will lock me in my horrible bedroom.
And they will threaten to kick me to the streets.
Literally kick.
Maybe even punch.
Wouldn't be the first time...
I have the scars to prove it.
Well... I hate them.
And I hate being the slave that I am.
So I'm kicking myself to the streets... so they don't get the satisfaction of seeing the shocked look on my face when I realize they aren't bluffing.
I know they aren't.

The smell of smoke got stronger and I smirked. "How's that for a dinner?" I said to myself.

Another thing about me...
I talk to myself.
A lot.
Probably because I have nobody else in my life that I can trust at the moment.
Or anybody else in my life at all.
Only my 'parents' and 'sister', which I couldn't despise more.

I stuck a hand under my bed. Which is just a mattress on the floor with uncomfortable sheets, one stained pillow, and the world's smallest, thinnest blanket.

I decided that it's best to hide anything you don't want to be taken from you.

I grabbed my old navy backpack with NYC written on it, with holes, stains, and barely any room for things, and started filling it with the necessities.

"I can't wait to leave." I whispered to myself with the opposite of sadness.

Yeah, I can't remember the word for it...
Being not sad...
It's been too long.

I only own two outfits.
One of which I'm wearing...
I packed the other which consists of green shorts and a loose fitting neon orange tank top.
Awesome right?
I hate orange...

I stuffed the outfit into the bottom of my backpack and ran to my mirror.

I was currently wearing dark blue jeans that are ripped so much I can barely wear them, a black sports bra, and a too small shirt that's also navy and says NYC on it.

Which is where I currently live.
New York City...
Plenty of homeless people there, I'll blend right in.

I rolled my eyes at the thought of being homeless.
Homeless, not helpless, I reminded myself.

I brought my attention back to my reflection.

"I could look worse." I mumbled.

"You definitely could." Said the voice in my head.

"Shut up." I told myself, with frustration.

I signed and pulled my dark brown hair into a slick-back bun with a hair tie that ripped and I had to tie back together.

My skin is naturally tan, and I have very short brown hair, which is cut unevenly and about two inches above my shoulders. My eyes are blue, and my left eyebrow is cut open in the middle, from... secret business. I think I'm a little short for my age, but can't be sure since I'm never allowed to leave the house.

The mirror I was looking into was my exact height with a large crack down the center.

No, I didn't break the mirror myself...
I don't need any more bad luck in my life.
I'm not exactly superstitious, but I don't need to be breaking mirrors left and right.
Ever since I heard of the phrase "Step on a crack, break your mom's back." I stopped believing in superstitions...
Because I stepped on every crack I could find, and it didn't work.
My 'mom' is still unfortunately in one piece.