The Broken Ones

Chapter 1

Taylor:

The word broken has three meanings, according to Google. One: Past participle of break. Two: Having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order. Three: Having given up all hope or despairing (relating to a person).

Only a broken person would look at this and think of one word. Me. And then they would think, but that's stupid. Nothing in this world can perfectly explain a singular broken person.

I clicked on the tiny x in the corner of my screen and closed the laptop with dread slowly forming in my stomach. I knew he was in a bad mood. But then again, he's always in a bad mood. I guess I couldn't blame him. I would be the same way if I had to deal with someone like myself.

I stood up, walking over to my dust-covered mirror with just a few strides, and pulled up my hair into a half bun on top of my head. I've always hated my hair. Most of my life, it's been brown, but I guess I got sick of it after awhile and decided to bleach the crap out of it, then turning it to platinum blonde. I made the mistake of getting my hair cut to the base of my neck, finding out later that any length longer than that drove me insane, so I continued to trim it to the identical measurement.

I silently groaned as I walked out of the room to the kitchen, where he was sitting, reading the newspaper. Who reads the newspaper anymore? I wanted to ask. Don't, a voice spoke in my head. I listened. That little voice was usually smarter than my sarcasm.

I avoided his grim gaze, opening the fridge and scanning the brightly lit shelves with boredom. Absolutely nothing. "There's no food," he said.

Wow, really? I wanted to retort. "Okay."

I closed the fridge and began walking back to my room, but his fingers wrapped around my wrist before I could shuffle into safety. I looked at him, waiting for words. He glared at me with his empty, dark eyes, his greasy brown hair sticking to his forehead. I really hated that man, and his touch repulsed me. "What?" I asked

"Where do you think you're going?" His words almost came out in a hiss.

Far away from you. "To my room."

"That's my room. Don't forget it." He glared at me for a second more, then returned his gaze to the paper with a flick of his wrist. I massaged my hand and stalked off.

"I'm gonna need you to get those groceries after school tomorrow," he added before I stepped into my room.

I rolled my eyes as I close the door to my bedroom. I couldn't help but let out a small sigh of relief when the door clicked shut. Nothing happened, I reminded myself.

Walter Underwood. My foster parent. The person I hated more than anyone. I've had to put up with him for five years, ever since I was 13. Even then, I knew I would despise him for the rest of my life. Never has he shown me any sign of love, therefore, I thought, why show any back? I guess he hated me just as much as I hate him.

I lifted the ripped curtain from my window and glanced out into the streets of my neighborhood. The houses weren't small, but they weren't large either. We lived in your average neighborhood, with your average, awkward neighbors, and your average sprinklers at five in the morning. Nothing special about this place at all. You could see some of the windows of the neighbor's house across the streets fogging up due to the low temperatures. I didn't know why, but it was a comforting sight to me. The orange sun was shining just below the horizon of the houses and into my room, yet did nothing to raise the blandness of it.

I let the curtain fall over the window and walked over to my backpack, throwing a thick hoodie with the word "Boston" printed on the front in bold, blue letters. I've always taken a particular liking to this hoodie, almost as if it was my comfort item. I wore it every day. Straightening my loose bag on my back, I walked out of my room and down the hall. Before I could open the door, I muttered, "Going out." He didn't reply.

I rolled my eyes and shut the door as gently as I could, even when my fingers were shaking with anger. The evening air pierced my lungs as I took a deep breath, but dramatically improved my spirits. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my skinny jeans and began walking down the street.

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