Bad Choices

one

This story doesn't start with a cop knocking on the door and me getting dragged into a cop car. No, this story starts with paint...

I hold my sketchbook loosely with one hand and rest it on my lap as I sit leaning against a wall on the floor. Students rushing by, anxious to get to class and I ... not so much. I don't even know why I'm here, oh yeah, I need to meet with Miss Charlston.

The music pounding in my ear from my headphones is so loud I barely hear steps falling closer and closer to me and didn't even notice until I saw a pair of suede boots.

"You wanted to see me, Zoranna." Miss Charlston say as I take my ear plugs out. Her voice stern, red painted lips shut tight.

"Yes." I jump up from the floor, tugging my sketchbook into my shoulder bag as I rush after her since she already has started walking, probably to the next class she's teaching.

"I was wondering-"

"I can't give you more art supplies, Zoranna." She sighs, even before I get the to a chance ask. Miss Charlston is an old lady, her voice deep and scratchy from years of smoking and her lips always painted deep red.

" How did you know I was gonna ask?" I readjust the strap of my shoulder bag.

"You have that tone in your voice." For such a small lady she's really fast. "Plus, why else would you be here? You don't go here anymore."

"But-" I try to protest. Ignoring her last comment. Of course this would be the only reason I'm here, why did I even ask?

"Zoranna," she stops in the now empty hallway, all students off to class, the only thing as evidence of students ever walking these halls are a few papers lost and forgotten on the floor.

I stop after her, staring the few inches down into her brown eyes. "You know I like you but I can't give you more and I think you know that." Her voice is slow and calm, like a grandmothers. But then she walks away, her heeled boots clicking in the quiet hallway.

I can't afford paint supplies, that's why I ask her. She know that drawing or painting is what keeps me calm, out of trouble, so she usually lets me have some, but not anymore... apparently.

I groan, annoyed at everything. So I spin around and walk towards the exit, not baring being here more than a second longer.

***

I meet Cleo at our usual hang out spot, an abandoned warehouse. We are always here so I don't even need to check to see if she's here or not. And if she wasn't, theirs always something to do here.

We aren't the only once using up this spot. It's a bunch of gangs and groups here, outsiders. 

The Warehouse is almost empty. Excel for a few groups here and their. Their voices, laughter and nicotine smoke fills up the large space with ease.

"Hey." I smile at her when approaching. She is standing against the wall, talking to some of our friends. Her shorter pastel pink hair is curled and her full lips have a cigarette placed between them. And when she notice me, they break apart in a toothy smile.

"Hi." She smiles back at me. The walls of this warehouse are full of graffiti, even in places I have no idea how they have gotten to. Behind her is a giant mural of a rose I painted there, that has, surprisingly, not been painted over yet by some ugly autograft people just love to do. It has become quite the heart of recognition for this place. Our own Mona Lisa.

I walk to stand beside her, turning my glance to  Harry and Alistar. My own little family.

"What are you guys talking about?" I take the cig from between Cleo's lips and take a blow of my own from it. The smokey feeling filling up my inside. Then I let it out in a pretty cloud of poison. It's funny how the thing that kills me the most sometimes is what keeps me alive.