A quick walk

A teenage girl tells you a story about her life, the moments that caused the lead up to one of her last moments alive.

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A cold air slams into my lungs as my dirty years old converse hits the cracked concrete of the pavement i've walked on since i was young, tripping over one of these very cracks when i was a toddler and cutting my knee, screaming and crying like a nuclear bomb had gone off rather then just falling out of clumsiness.

My mother picked me up, fawning over my injury while my dad just shook his head and frowned, brown hair shaking slightly as he did so, longer than it usually was. Fucking hated him, despised him actually, hated my mum too. They stopped caring, well my mum stopped caring, my dad never cared, when i hit 13.

And when i hit 13, that's when i started hitting. My knuckles were always bruised or cut, my knees bled a dark red that was almost hypnotising from all the falls i took after a feble attempt at somebody defending themselves. That only ever made me more angry. They never learned to just lay down and take it, which pissed me off more. They should have learned to just stop fighting, stop trying to overpower me, stop trying to be better than me.

I quickly stop in my tracks, cold hair slapping my cheeks, reddening them. I let out a frosty breath and turned to look towards the road, stepping out.

A truck speeds along the concrete hole filled road, country blasting, and a drunk man slurring out the very racist lyrics. Headlights blinding, both the young girl crossing and the man's gaze.