Bite The Hands That Feed You

Above the streets, your life caters to the rich, to the good. The perfect little shops set up on the streets, the tourists buzzing with life, a couple shares a drink and a smile. But I'm not here to talk about how life felt before I was sixteen. When the heat would bathe across my skin, my life was filled with chasing boys and laughing in the rain. Now, I ran from them. Ran from the hands that caressed me. That hit me.
I'm Charlie, short for Charlotte. And this is the story about how I died.