Alone

Chapter Two

When we reached the station, I don't know if I should celebrate being here after a long boring car ride, or be terrified of what's going to happen next. Probably both.

That is until I realize, they might question me, I might be forced to answer. That's what scares me most.

They don't need to know my past. They don't need to know me. They don't know anything.

Wow, that is quite a lot of they's. They is also a strange word. Strange is too now that I think of it. All words are strange Paige. Hey that rhymed!

I glance up and wipe the smile straight off my face as I heard the country man
tell the policeman, "She does that a lot. Just kinda zones out, all you gotta do is snap your fingers in her face just like this-"

"Not necessary Carter. What do y'all want?" I demanded, annoyed that they were talking about me as if I wasn't there. Well, technically I wasn't there but I also was, ya know?

Fingers snapped quickly in front of my face followed by a booming laugh coming from the culprit, then I heard, "See? I told ya, all ya gotta do is snap your fingers in her face and she'll come right back!"

"Shut up," I mutter forcefully.

"Well then, Paige follow me so I can ask you a few questions." The policeman stares down at me with black eyes, gazing as if he doesn't know what to think of me.

Reluctantly, I follow him into the small square room with a table and two chairs resting in the center. He lightly pushes me to a chair and hesitantly I move on to it.

"Now, Paige, what is your last name?" He sits back in a relaxed position, reading off a paper in his hand.

"I don't have a last name, Sir." I say quietly, unsure of what his follow up question could be.

"Everyone has a last name. What's yours?" His black eyes travel towards me, with endless uncertainty gaze as he examines my body language.

Instantly I begin squirming and claim, "I'm telling you, I don't have one, honest."

"Fine, whatever," he rolls his eyes at me. Rude! "Now missy, where are your parents?"

Simply, I state, "Dead."

"Well then, where are you living?" He looks at me curiously, eyes full of pity. I hate that look, it won't change a single thing.

"The woods, mostly. What are you gonna do with me now?" I stare at him, thinking, 'if he dares do anything I'll run as fast and far as I can. I don't need this.

"Well, we're gonna take you in and put you in the foster system. What else would we do?" He stares at me for a second, and as if he read my mind, he continued, "don't you think about runnin', the door is locked and there's no where to run anyways."

"I don't need a place." I claim stubbornly.

He rolls his eyes again. Rude, rude, rude, rude, rude. Then immediately goes back to pity. "How did your parents die?"

Great, flashbacks are so fun.

One of my fathers drunken friends storms into our house. This is normal, ever since my mother died in a car crash two years ago my father has changed. I do everything, cleaning, cooking, the works. And what do I get? One meal a day, a ratty twin mattress, a single blanket, and enough clothes I could count every article with less then my ten fingers.

Anyways, my fathers friend walks in. He's as old as my father, around thirty, but with all the things he does he looks at least fifty. He pulls a pistol from his hip and calls for my father. "Mark! Mark! Get your ugly ass in here!"

My father, drunk or high, stumbled in the room and they both looked livid. I wonder what my father did this time.

"What are you yellin' 'bout this time?!" My father growls out "Don't you know people like to smoke their hangovers away! What else am I supposed to do! Hey, slave! Go get me a beer now!"

I sprinted down the stairs of the dark home covered with broken beer bottles and every drug you could think of. Quickly, I snatched two bottles of beer from the fridge, knowing taking just one would be stupid.

I got frustrated, and grit my teeth saying, "My name is Paige, it means young servant not a frikkin' slave." I was so angry I couldn't hold my younger like I normally did. The second I said it I knew I was dead.

"You little..." He starts off, frustrated and growling, and suddenly it's a sickeningly sweet voice that terrified me even more. "You know what, you're right! You do have a name!" Then immediately his growl returned. "Your name is slave, girl!" Slap "Get" slap "that" slap "in" slap "your" slap "stupid" slap "head!" Slap. Punch. Kick.

He beat me for a good five minutes until a loud booming voice came in, "Ignore her," he said, pointing the gun at my father, "My wife and you... I thought we where friends! Well, we went now. Goodbye, you dirty messed up boy." I jumped and screamed as he pulled the trigger. My eight year old mind went hectic, I didn't know what to do or how to react. I just know he pointed the gun at me after my father fell to the ground. I stopped screaming for a few seconds, and he stumbled back, stunned when I screamed again. So shocked, he even dropped the gun.

I didn't know what else to do, so I picked up the gun and shot him. I still don't know if he's dead, though. I frantically shot the rest of the five bullets, four of them landing in his leg. The fifth, well, that bullet landed straight in his left eye. I didn't want his to have anything to shot me with when I turned around.

He screamed my name and I ran for miles, moving two or three towns over and ended up in my woods.

As I explained my terrible past, I watch the policeman's face as he heard  my story, how I possibly murdered that man. Shocked, he silently gripped my bicep once again and dragged me into a jail cell.

"You'll be stayin' here for the night. I'll take care of the whole foster thing in the mornin', get some rest. You'll need every bit you can get." His voice was cold, but shaky. This man needs to make up his mind already. He is constantly filled with uncertainty and it's annoying.

Reluctantly, I laid on the matted bed and felt myself drifting off into sleep.