How do you control your future when your future is controlled by the past?
That's a question Dylan Foster has been struggling to answer for years. His parents are dead. But the family feud with a violent gang is still very much alive, and they're a...
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Henley
"If you hate it so much, get your fucking burger from somewhere else!" Abby bitches. The man looks stunned.
"I need to speak to your manager." He points at me and glares behind his thick-framed glasses.
"Sir, just calm down," I try my best to keep my anger stifled but it's the second time today Abby has decided to bicker with a customer and I'm just about ready to slap the orange make up off her face. God, she really knows how to ruffle my feathers. But because she's my bosses niece, she barely even gets a slap on the wrist.
"No, no, no. I want to see your manager, now," he insists. My jaw sets.
"I'll go get him." I fucking hate my job. And I hate my manager even more. He's a disgusting pig. Doesn't give a damn about anything or anyone as long as he gets his money, and there's no doubt in my mind he spends it all on drugs. I've been around drugs my whole life and I know an addict when I see one. Or work for one...
"Hey Randall, there's a customer that wants to talk to you," I bite back a sigh.
He stands from the desk hidden by papers, magazines and old stained coffee cups. His "white" wife-beater has turned a repulsive yellowish-grey colour and his dark hair shines with grease.
"This better be good." He swallows the rest of his sandwich and licks the mayo off of his filthy fingers.
I do my best to hide my disgust and follow him back out to the counter where the short man is waiting impatiently.
"How can I help ya?" Randall rasps.
"Your employees are shocking. I made a complaint about my food and their response was to be rude and use vulgar language in front of my wife and child." He points to a table where a snobbish looking woman and teenager sit, watching us all.
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. I can give you a refund." Randall looks pissed. And I know I'm going to be the one who gets blamed even though I did nothing wrong.
"That won't be necessary. We're leaving. This is the very last time we'll be eating in this side of town," he grimaces, turns and nods at his family before they all leave.
Randall turns to me with the most furious expression I've ever seen. "This is coming out of your paycheck."
"No, you can't do that," I start but he doesn't listen. He was back through the door towards his office when I decide I've had enough.
"I quit." He comes to a halt.
"You what?" He spins back around and comes to a stop only inches away from my face. The acrid smell of cigarettes and beer waft in my face and I almost gag.
"I quit." Now I'm holding my breath.
"Fine. But you'll soon find yourself crawling back. You need me, after all," he says with a toothless grin.
I don't say anything, just rip off my stupid apron and throw it on the floor before storming out of the grimy building and on to the streets of Reymont.
Fucking Reymont. I've always hated this place, from the rich side to the hood. Everyone is shitty no matter how much money they have.
Goosebumps prick my skin as I walk down the windy streets until I arrive in front of my home—well, shitty little apartment complex. A home is a place you feel welcome and safe. I don't here. It's just a small roof over my head. Far from safe with all the gang members and addicts that live on my floor.
"You're home early," my mom's hoarse voice croaked. I sigh as I see her lying on the couch with a thin, snagged blanket. Her face is pale and full of scabs and wrinkles, her body is skeletal and her hair is matted and greasy. This is what I have had to see since I was a little girl.
"Yeah, I quit." I kick off my converse and walk towards the tiny open kitchen.
"You what? Henley, we can't afford you to quit!" She sat up, anger scribbled all over her face.
"And we can't afford your addiction, but you still fuck around with guys and drugs." I keep my back turned away from her as I fill up a glass of water. I don't have to be afraid of her hitting me anymore. She stopped as soon as I began to fight back.
I get no response so I storm into my room with the glass and close the door behind me. I lock it and sink down to my feet, my knees coming up to my chest. My head tilts back and rests against the door as my eyes close. I'm so fucking done with today.
My eyes wander around my room and stop on my wooden chest at the bottom of my bed. With a huff, I stand and open the chest, moving all of its contents onto my bed. It has a false bottom stashed with the money I've been saving since I was younger. I've been saving for one thing, and one thing only. To get the hell out of this place. I don't care how much we struggle to pay rent or food, the money is only to be spent on that specific thing. I made a promise to myself when I was nine.
It's not enough yet though, and because I imprudently quit my job, I have to visit an old friend and hope he'll take me back. I did fuck up big time the last time we spoke. But that's no surprise, now is it?
My coat hangers squeak against the cool metal pole as I quickly find a hoodie to throw on. Then, I come across my father's old blue hoodie. A small, involuntary smile forms on my face before I take it off the rack and don it on. It's way too big but for some reason, it gives me way more comfort than any other item of clothing I own (and I love hoodies for their comfort).
Jonathan will be happy to see me... At least I hope he will. I know I miss him and his stupid smug smile.
"Where are you going now?" My mom asks but I just shrug her off before walking right out of the door. She's put me through hell and now she has the nerve to "care" about where I'm going? Whatever.
The familiar old scrap yard comes into view as I turn the corner and through the metal gates.
"Where the hell have you been?"
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