A/N - This chapter may contain events that could be upsetting to some people. Just a warning. Thanks
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I forgot how much I love the night time.
It's been a few hours since I escaped that hell-hole. A few hours of wandering through the streets of London, alone and unafraid. Taking the back-streets to avoid being seen by those that could possibly hurt me. But out here, I'm in control. I have the space to run. To fight. To attack. No one can mess with me out here.
I've been here before. Living on the streets, I mean. After a particularly explosive argument with the man I call father, I fled at the tender age of fifteen. I was never going to live under a roof where a man thought he could tell me what to do. Especially a man that wasn't even my real father.
I don't know my real parents. I was adopted when I was nine. From what I understand, my birth parents weren't very good to me. I ran away and from the second they found me, I was a fighter. Taken into the orphanage kicking and screaming, begging for the pain to stop. Crying out 'make Daddy stop'.
But, thankfully, a nine-year-old doesn't retain much information. So I forgot it all. Forgot all about this traumatic past that I'm pretty sure I have. Shut down the basic function of trust and became self-reliant from then on. Because despite erasing my past from my tiny little mind, I remembered that men were my enemy. And therefore, I made it my goal to never let them win.
So, as you can imagine, my adoptive father was never in my good books. I never got on with him for the simple fact that he is a man. He was out to hurt me, and nothing my mam or sister could ever do or say would make me see different. I knew the truth. And I wasn't going to take any more shit from him.
So, after yet another argument, I thought enough was enough. I'm not dealing with this any more. And off I went. Very much like tonight, I didn't give myself any time to grab any personal things. I just took the clothes on my back and ran out into the heart of London, never looking back.
It wasn't easy. The first few weeks were nearly the death of me. The baggy shirt and loose jeans that I lived in were not a great source of warmth in the harsh winter winds of the city. My energy quite quickly depleted, meaning that I could never fight back if I came across another lost soul who's only goal was to harvest the slice of bread from the same bin as myself. My slender form quickly became skeletal, and I was practically on the verge of surrender.
But then a kindly old woman took me under her wing. She led me to her little tent made of old blankets and shredded jumpers, provided me with sufficient nutrition until I was strong enough to move again. She was my shield from the world. The one who taught me about the dangers of the outside world. I knew nothing about the reality of the streets. And if I hadn't met her, then I don't think I would be here.
As my strength grew, I managed to become the apprentice that she needed. I say apprentice, but that really isn't what I was to her. I became her friend. My one true friend in the world. We stuck our neck out for one another. I was strong enough to do the rummaging for food and material to help us survive. And in return, she taught me to fight. Fight like my life depended on it.
For three years, I lived with her. They were easily the happiest days of my miserable existence. But as you can imagine, the streets are no place for someone like her. And one day, after a long day of hoarding potatoes and scraps of meat, I returned to find that I was alone in the world once more.
After that, I made it my goal to live my life for her. To make her proud and show that she didn't die without leaving some mark on the world. Every day from then on was a war. I fought everyone that I could, just to have some sort of purpose in the world. I was the shadow that people would speak of around the camp fires. The broken little girl that brought nothing but violence to all men. I was a warrior. And no one would ever mess with me.
