Scattered

Walking alone

Chapter one

I put my hands into my pockets and kept my head low. It was a warm night and the air was sticky. I heard the usual; drunks fighting, girls screaming, people laughing and some crying. I avoided the sounds of fighting, slightly afraid that it might be a gang fight and not a drunk fight.

                People always tell me that ‘am lucky for living in a place like California. These people get the picture of California from flashy TV shows and celebrity magazines. In reality where I live there is no glitz or glamor. No fancy cars or cash falling from the sky. The slums in which I reside are something to be avoided or treaded upon carefully. Every now and then two gangs take it out on each other, drive-by’s are not a constant occurrence but they happen often enough to scare you. I’ve known people – like me – who don’t get involved with gangs, don’t make friendly with ‘em who still end up shot. All it takes is for you to say ‘hi’ to someone. A ‘hi’ could be a death sentence.

                I opened my front door and slammed it behind me hard. Making my drunken (or drugged up, I wasn’t sure yet) mom jump up and glare in my direction.

                “What’re you doing!” her voice was high pitch screech. Oh she was drunk. Always loud when she’s drunk, always slow when she was on drugs.

                “I’m going to bed.” I began walking past her but she grabbed my arm, making me stop for a moment to yank myself from her grasp. “Hey!” I snarled.

                “You got some cigarettes?!” she was practically screeching at me.

                “No.” I said simply, hoping that would be the end of it. I stomped off into my bedroom but before I even got the chance to lie down on my bed my mom was gripping onto my arm again. I spun round and she shook me. “Get off me.” I snapped. I was not in the mood for her usual ways. I’d just gotten fired from my job; a little café on the very edge of town. I wasn’t mad for the reason I was fired (the place was small and needed to cut down on workers) I was just mad because I loved that job. It was the one thing that helped block out all the shit in my life.

                “USELESS BASTARD!” that was the last screech I could bare to hear. I elbowed passed her, feeling pity on her.

                 Her blonde hair was greasy and stuck to her head. Her skin was grey and her bones jutted out; cheek bones, knuckles and collar bones. Making her look like she’d been starved for days, which wasn’t the case, she was just destroyed by drugs and alcohol.

                I practically ran out into the night. It was still warm and sticky. I didn’t know what to do, other than walk until I felt calmer. So I just walked. I kept on walking and eventually all the usual noises were dead. I was bored and in desperate need of a cigarette. I stopped walking and felt my pockets to see if I had a cigarette hidden in one of them.

                “Fuck.” I mumbled when no cigarettes seemed to be in my possession. I looked up and swallowed hard.

                I’d somehow walked to Maria’s house. It was boarded up and was no longer the – somewhat – welcoming place it had been to me. Now it was just the place of her death. I couldn’t bring myself to go look inside, although a part of me wanted to, I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. It had been nearly four years.  I still lay awake at night and cried and cried. I couldn’t go inside that house and relive that day. The day I’d found the girl of my dreams, my best friend, curled on her side, bleeding and dying. She may have been murdered by someone else but she died in my arms.  And I’d taken the guilt of her passing.