Dusty.
Sweaty.
Hot.
Those were the only words I could think of to describe my situation. Other than 'Freaking bad', of course.
I mean, what would you call it?
I was sitting on a dusty schoolbus, handcuffed to the metal bar on the window. I was sweaty, and there was no way on earth I could escape the heat. Other than strangling myself with the cuffs. Which would require taking them off. Which is not to say that's particularly hard for me. I could probably do it in a minute, on a good day.
Because that's a skill you might pick up if you're in a very, very, horribly bad situation. And I was. Well, for other people's standards, at least. To me, being on my own, living of the streets, with only homeless communities and the occasional charitable rich person to help me, was a luxury. But then, almost anything is better than what I had had before.
A drunk mother, a work-a-holic father who cared more about his dog than his daughter, a bunch of so-called 'friends' who thought they knew all about me. Yeah, I had it all.
That's how it was, for a long time. Since I was about... 10. Yeah. At ten, I was the toughest, most independent girl in my little town. At 11, I started realizing how bad the situation was getting. At 12, I started making plans to runaway.
Now, you're probably rolling your eyes right about here. Listen, I get that. I do. But you have to understand, these were not the regular fits of anger over losing a piece of candy, like a 5 year old does. No, these were careful calculations about how much money I would need, what I could do to get it, how to make my self look older so I could get a job, where I would stay, and just in general, how I'd survive.
Still think they were the ramblings of a toddler?
Didn't think so.
