Love is my Drug

1

AVA

"Noah!" I screamed at him, " How could you?!?! How?!"

He just stared at me with unseeing, uncaring eyes. How could he do this to me? Can't he see how much I hurt? I guess I was wrong, I guess he didn't love me.

---

8 monthes earlier

BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!

My alarm clock blared at me. It read 6:30 a.m. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

A loud banging sounded at my door.

"Turn that damn thing off, Ava!!!" a gruff voice called at me. It was my dad, and he was hung over, again, after his raging party last night. I could tell by the pattern and pitch of his voice. When he was high, it was syrupy-sweet, with an underlying tone of hunger. When he was drunk or hung over, he had a deep, scratchy,masculine tone filled with anger. I can't remember the last time I heard him sober, so I have no idea of what he sounds like then. My mom, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. her voice gets deep and scratchy when she's high, and sweet and loud when she's drunk. My parents weren't always like this. When I was really little, we were a happy family, but my dad cheated on my mom with one of her collage friends. It all went downhill from there. Mom started drinking, then they started fighting, then dad got on drugs. I still love them, I mean, they are still my parents. They're just not good ones.

I hit the OFF button on my clock, which was older than me. I jumped up of my bed, which was just a mattress on the floor of my shoe box sized room, covered in a couple of thin,tearing blankets and a paper thin pillow, and ran to the hole in my wall where I hung my clothes. I had about four pairs of Goodwill jeans and one pair of shorts, a black and grey striped hoodie, and three shirts. A short sleeve black v-neck. A long sleeve grey crew neck. A deep red long sleeve v-neck. I grabbed one pair of jeans, my jacket, and the grey shirt. A ratty pair of black Converse were slipped on, a quick brush through my deep red hair, which I got from my mother, and I slipped out my door, locking it behind me. I crept quietly down the hall, trying to avoid a) my dad, b)his friends, and c) any 'lady friends' they had over. He won't let me call them whores, even though the get paid to do what they do. And quite loudly might I add.

Grabbing my long board from the hall closet, I grabbed my backpack, house keys, and wallet from my secret stash. It was basicall a hole my dad punched in the wall when he was drunk, which I hid with a picture. The only reason I kept my stuff there and not in my room is because my dad searches my room for money to buy drugs, but he doesn't remember punching the hole in the wall. I crept outside, down the apartment stairs, and breathed in the Chicago smog.

(Picture of Ava on the side)