It was late. Almost one in the morning. I was on a bus, I couldn't tell what city I was in. All I know is that I need to get to South Carolina. I lived on Long Island at the time. I might've been in Maryland, maybe Virginia. My hands were shaky. It was July then, and it was relatively warm on the bus, but there was coldness inside of me.
I was made tough by the places I'd lived; I was taught to be strong by the people I lived with. Not that they told me to fight for myself or anything. No, I had to teach myself to be strong because of the people I lived with. I had three sisters and one brother, myself being the youngest. My parents divorced when I was eleven, and I lived with my mom. It was rough living with her. For one example, she could never settle. We moved. A lot. We would move two or three, sometimes four times a year. There was no stability. It was so hard adjusting to so many different schools, I ended up dropping out in 10th grade. Additionally, my mother abused me. Verbally, physically. Every day I'd hear a remark about how I was a mistake, how I never do anything right. She made me feel like nothing. She slapped me, punched me, pulled my hair, and once even splashed me with boiling water. I still have scars from it, next to my ear. When I was 15, I moved in with my dad. He was, and always had been, an alcoholic. Although it was sometimes embarrassing to bring a friend home and find my father passed out drunk on the lawn when we got there, I loved him. I really did. He understood me. He never hurt me. He loved me.
When I was fourteen, I met the boy who I think is my soulmate. I was with my friend Dawn. She brought him. They were dating at the time, but we were only in eighth grade. Anyway, Dawn Sheffield brought him along, and she told me his name was
