If you had told me a week ago that I was moving from my small town in British Colombia Canada, I likely would've called you an insane wack job with absolutely no knowledge of my family.
But now, seeing as I am in fact moving from the small town that's been my home since I was six, eleven years ago to a completely different area in a completely different province/state in a completely different country, I may have regretted calling you crazy.
I was what you may call, a problem child. I had grown up in a bad area with bad people and I was influenced I guess. I mean, how hard is it to be a good person when you're basically living in hell?
My father was- no, is- in a risky business. He was a mob boss, one of the most infamous actually. His territory was recently bought out for a few million dollars, and he was given new territory somewhere in California. My mother had left us a long time ago. Dad never talked about it and frankly I didn't really care, she clearly didn't.
I had grown up in the middle of constant mob wars, shootings, lying, cheating, murders. I was an expert in hand to hand combat, and weapon fighting seeing as I had to be able to defend myself living like this. My dad was now training my brother to run the family business, and he would start training me in a year or two.
Growing up I had barely any rules. With a dad who was too focused on keeping us alive and a stupid brother who didn't give a shit, I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted to. That's how I became the ruler of the streets when the sun went down, and the one everyone avoids when the sun was up. I myself was in a risky business, if you would even call it that.
Street fighting.
Around 1 o'clock every morning, I would leave the house after tipping the guards and head to the middle of town where there was an underground bar. Men and occasionally women would come down every night and place bets on people as they fought until one of them was out cold. Not dead, just unconscious. I had never lost a fight, but my small figure and pink workout gear (which I only wear to give off a princessy impression, most buy into it, those sexist bastards) gave people the idea that I had intended, giving me money.
I didn't need the money, that's why I never keep it. I always donate to charities and people who need it, but if you tell anyone I will kick your ass.
"Cailyn get off your ass and help carry in your crap." My older brother, Dylan, called. I rolled my blue eyes and grabbed one of the boxes from the back of the truck.
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(Their house.)
"This crap is your stuff idiot." I said, reading the box that said 'Dylan's room' on it. I walked through the large interior of the house and followed him up the stairs to what I assumed was his bedroom. The walls were a dark blue colour which were soon to be covered by his posters of rock bands and cars.
