Living Like A Runaway

Welcome to the Jungle

Pain radiated through me, almost as if it was a second, sorer heartbeat. Shattered glass littered the floor, and the stickiness of fresh blood clung to the left side of my face, getting in my strawberry blonde hair. I stood up carefully, wincing at the pain shooting around me. My abusers, my mother and step-father, John, were gone, of course, leaving me to deal with the mess they had created.

Slowly, I made my way upstairs to my room, making a hot shower the first of my priorities. Every mini-task involved in just that was a real effort, and only made my body feel heavier. I did it, however, slowly but surely. Then I slipped on new clothes, applied thick layer of eyeliner on the top and bottom of my eyes, and added a layer of wine-colored lipstick on the bottom. A bandage was placed over the cut on my forehead, and concealer coated every single bruise.

This was basically my every-other-day routine. One or both of my parents would come home, violently drunk off their asses, and start beating the shit out of me for no particular reason. I had nothing against drunkenness or drugs, quite honestly; my dad was no better. However, I didn't like to tolerate users that were violent when the toxin took its effect. To me, there was a distinct difference. The only reason I stuck around was because she was my mother.

"What does she need me for, anyway?" I mumbled, descending the stairs to begin the tedious work of restoring the house to cleanliness. "All she cares about is her shit boyfriend and her drugs." And it was true. The only two addicts that let drugs overshadow every other aspect of their lives, and it had to be my parents. "Why the hell do I even bother staying?" But where would I go? It wasn't like I had anything stopping me, but I didn't have any money, or anywhere to go. Except to my father.

Under most circumstances, I made it a point to avoid staying with my dad for too long. It wasn't like he was some normal dad, exactly; he was Michael Starr, the cocky, horny, mogul singer for the comedy glam band, Steel Panther. It wasn't that I didn't like him or the band, though. I wasn't the kind of person that particularly liked to be in the spotlight. Then again, I'd never really given it a chance, but still.

Honestly, I'd have to be willing to risk my privacy. Nineteen years of this abusive bullshit was quite frankly enough for me. I wasn't a saint; I drank, I smoked pot, and I was just a bit of a bitch. However, I knew my boundaries. I would never, ever lay a hand on someone, let alone my own kid... and I would never stay with someone that used me to get heroin.

Hastily, I did a half-assed job of sweeping and cleaning the house, enough so that my parents wouldn't exactly notice that they'd destroyed it yet again. As soon as I finished, I rushed up the stairs, though I was unsure of whether or not I should pack first. However, considering I had time before my mom and her boyfriend would be back, I decided to pack.

I filled my suitcases (I had two) with the works; clothing, jewelry, toiletries, my extensive collection of makeup, my diary, my sketchbook, my record and cassette collections, posters, and any other thing that remotely belonged to me. Worst case, if my mom came back, I could unpack my things.

My arm trembled, partly from the lasting pain and partly from nervousness, as I picked up the phone, slowly dialing my dad's phone number. I felt a gut-wrenching pain in my stomach. It felt so weak to have to resort to something like this, not that it was a bad thing, but it shouldn't have been necessary.  Dial tone started to ring into the receiver as I took another deep breath.

"Hello?" A voice answered simply, and I knew it wasn't my dad.

"Uh... is Michael Starr there?"

"Nope!" The guy laughed. "But I am, if y'know, you're up for a good time."

I rolled my eyes. "It's Melody, his daughter..."

"Oh, fuck! Shit, I'm sorry. It's Satchel! How're you doin', kid?"