Travesty

Chapter One

Abram

Money sucked. I hated the feeling of not having any. I hated that I needed it. And I really hated the fuckin' fact my freedom awaited me in the form of three thousand dollars. I glanced back at the door, making sure the rusty trash barrel I'd pushed up against it hadn't moved.

The barrel had been my makeshift dresser for the past four years. It wasn't ideal, but neither was living with two assholes who got off on torturing a kid, so I didn't complain. At least I'd had enough common sense to line it with a trash bag, so my clothes didn't stink—beyond the rank stench of stale cigarettes and rotten food.

Quietly taking out the last bill from my duffle bag, I counted silently to myself. Twelve thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars. It had taken me almost a year and a half to save. I closed my eyes, wanting to scream profanities in frustration. Sighing, I closed the bag and shoved it back under the dilapidated floorboard, praying for a miracle. Once again, disappointment. No matter that I had more cash than any normal seventeen-year-old . . . because in the end, it wasn't a-fucking-nough.

I'd learned over the last few years that one could blow through money pretty quickly when paying for necessities, like heat and food. I'd been working, pushing myself to the brink, with nothing to lose but my sanity—all for freedom. Freedom meant different things to different people. Escaping an abusive relationship, getting out from under your pops' roof, or making your own choices were all viable meanings, but for me, it simply meant being me. Finding me. Unfortunately, I didn't turn eighteen tomorrow, so without the money, I was still screwed.

What I wanted to do was tell Pat what a sorry piece-of-shit she was, then beat Jim within an inch of his sorry, sad-sack life. I'd been placed with them a little over four years ago, when I was thirteen. Talk about a life-changing moment.

Of course, being in foster care for the majority of my life, it wasn't like I'd had anything else to compare it to. But somehow I knew, during that first week in their house, my life wasn't my own. I'd never felt more insignificant or alone. I knew when Jim first laid his hands on me, I was at his mercy; it was up to me how I coped with it.

I heard footsteps and hurried to move the barrel back into place. I met Pat at the door before she could barge in.

"I need smokes and a fifth."

She disgusted me, making me gag anytime she was nearby. I'd learned over the years to swallow the bile because throwing up only pissed them off even more. It wasn't that she'd ever sexually abused me or anything. The only time she'd even touched me in a way that wasn't meant to cause pain, was when I was younger and the social worker would show up.

"I just got some. And the whiskey is under the sink, where it always is." I was sick of her shit, but quite frankly, still depressed because I didn't have a solid plan for escape after four years.

She slapped my face. Hard. I spit out the side of my mouth not caring if any of it hit her. I gritted my teeth, my adrenaline pulsing through my veins, enough for me to feel on the verge of erupting. Like a fuckin' volcano. I took the deepest breath, my lungs expanding twice their size, full of fury and hot air. My nostrils working double time to keep myself contained.

Calmness washed over me, as I once again, talked myself down from total and utter destruction. Killing someone was bad. It was not a natural feeling and I would not give into the weakness. It made me feel like something was off in my brain—considering beating someone to death—especially a female. But, I supposed at the end of the day, you couldn't survive being beaten, stabbed, burned with cigarettes, and starved to the point of malnutrition, without having a few psychotic moments.