Broken

Chapter 1

"Emily, of all the classes you choose this one to doodle in?!"

"Well I wouldn't have to 'doodle' if you had anything worth listening to, k Porky?"

I'm the kind of person rich people would call 'at risk', when in all actuality, if someone calls me that to my face, the owner of the words are at risk.

No one could ever understand what it's like to be me, so I don't let them get close enough to find out.

To start with, I am a genius. No gimmicks. No jokes. I am a bona fide Albert Einstein genius.

I know, hard to believe with my oh-so-witty retort I started with, but no one can know that I'm smart. No one can know that I'm tough because I'm hiding something.

Better to let them think I'm a jerk than tell them that I've known everything about the subject since I was a child.

My childhood is not one that you could call normal. I grew up in the foster care system, and no one wanted me.

When I was four years old I told my foster mother at the time that she was the best mom anyone could ever have. She had me reentered into the system the next day.

I didn't know till later that I had spoken in fluent Russian.

From that day forward I tried to hide my strangeness from the homes that I stayed at and the schools that I attended. But every time I stayed in one place for longer than a few weeks something would happen.

The worst thing that has ever happened to me was with my last foster parent. I've dreamt about it every night since then.

I still wake up screaming a name. In the time that it took me to realize I had dreamed that durned dream again, I had already forgotten the name. It was a new one every time.

I forget, at least, until I write in my dream journal. Yes, I have a dream journal. Although there is only one dream in it, there are countless names.

It took me two years to figure out that they had all just mysteriously died. I don't have any specific religion, but the only thing that keeps me sane is the hope that they went to a better place, to their god.

Not only have I been in and out of the social service office, I've also been in and out of jail for fighting dirty.
I'm only sixteen, but I've been to countless bars, and been in countless gun fights armed with only my old, beat up, rusted over, hunting knife.

I've found that people tend to stay away from the freak that plays with knives.

That was exactly what I wished for: invisibility for something that drew so much attention. If no one cared then no one noticed me jumping at the smallest sounds, shuffling away from the dark, looking over my shoulder.

The reason I act so abnormally is the same reason I ended up in jail in the first place. But no one knows what he did to me. What I did to me. I cry myself to the dream world every night reliving the scenes over and over...

I try to keep my head up and a blank face as all eyes are on me. The hungry look in their eyes hint at what's in store for me if I don't perform well enough. I flinch as the almost-see-through cloth brushes against my new bruises. Just before the music starts I say a quick prayer to whoever is out there to make it end. The lust driven men are transfixed as I begin my shameful dancing. I cringe internally when I feel their hands...

My wandering mind is interrupted by the end words to what I can only assume to be a very long rant about behavior in a classroom.

"STRAIGHTTOTHEPRINCIPALSOFFICE!"

Without saying a word, I grab my tattered army green backpack and calmly walk out of the room.

A/N
Hi. I really hope you love this story as much as I love writing it. But because I'm a newb to writing in Wattpad, I love hearing others thoughts about anything. You could say "that sounds like my pet potato" and I would still love reading it.

If any of you gorgeous people have any questions, comments, concerns, regrets (hopefully not about reading my book), please comment. I would love to hear it (read it?). I will check on them as much as I can and try to respond.

Love my pretties.

Stand by for next chapter ;)