/chapter three/
"Graham! Hey, Graham, wait up!" Someone was shouting my name from behind me. It was still dawn and I wasn't even halfway finished with my run with my new route.
Valentine latched onto my arm and spun me around. She struggled to catch her breath, probably from all the smoking gave her bad lungs. Her cheeks with bright red and her hair was a mess. The sting of her morning breath took my by surprise and I took a step back.
"I wanna show you something," she said, a slight smirk lighting up her worn out face. Her hands fell down to mine and cupped them, attempting to tug me into the direction she came from.
I pulled away from her, baffled. "Don't you remember what happened the last time we saw each other? Don't you remember what I told you? I thought I made it blatantly obvious I don't wanna see or have anything to do with you," I responded much harsher than I meant to. "Besides, I don't even know you."
She replaced her smile with pursed lips that enclosed a fresh cigarette she pulled from her coat pocket. I don't know what smelled worse; the cigarette or her morning breath. As I watched her boney fingers struggle to light a match, I realized something. What was I still doing here watching her kill her lungs away? Why was I watching her shed years off of her life?
Just as I turned to walk away, she opened her mouth to speak. "You know that man you saw me with yesterday? I slept with him so he'd give me drugs even though I have enough money to buy them myself. He is thirty-three years older than me," she said, her weight shifted onto one foot and the cigarette between her fingers hung down by her side. The sun rose from behind her, giving off a halo-like glow about her.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"He is older than my dad, you know. He thinks I'm eighteen and a hooker on his side of the fence." She paused and let me take in what she said. "Now you know a little bit about me."
I don't know why the hell I went with her, but we were at her house and no one was home. Still, she led me through the back door up to her room. The walls were a cheerful bubblegum pink. Her bedspread had roses on it and the walls were decorated with child-like pictures.
"Is this really your room?" I asked. Then I kept thinking. "Wait, is this even your house?"
"Yes, this is my house, prick. And yes, this really is my room. My parents believe I'm still the same person I was when I was five." Her mouth opened to speak again, but a loud gong rang through the house. "Oh good, they're here."
"Wait, who's here?" I asked as she ran out of her room. I followed her into the hallway down the main staircase and was surrounded by unfamiliar parts of her home.
Her house was much different than mine. It had a very Gothic feel to it while mine was very classic and timeless. All the rooms had very dark paint colors with low lighting spaced very far apart. The front door was made out of iron and was bent and curved in ornate ways. It was fascinating. Through the glass that was built in the gaps of the iron, a group of people were standing outside.
She looked over her shoulder and smirked at me before opening the door. In walked four boys and one girl.
