• Chapter One

    Have you ever heard the saying “be yourself”? Such a simple saying that means so much. Two words put together with plenty meaning. But what if being you was bad? What if you weren’t smart? What if you did bad things? What if you were… me?
    I sat down and glanced up at the clock. It was a Saturday afternoon. It was 3:30pm to be exact. Shouldn’t mom be awake by now? Isn’t this her usual time for a cigarette break, and some chips? I stood in her bedroom doorway to find her sprawled out on her bed. The blankets were not covering an inch of her body; they were all on the ground. I looked at my mother with disgust. I could see pill bottles spilled over on her dresser, and beer cans lying on the floor. I was afraid I would wake her up which would get her mad, so I quietly tip-toed out of her room. I made myself a ham sandwich, and sat down. What to do on a Saturday? I took a huge bite of my sandwich, and glanced at the door leading me to the outdoors. I was so bored. There was nothing I could do. I knew I had to get out of the house. There is only a little amount of stuffy air I can possibly take. I went outside. The cold air whipped my bare cheeks. Why did summer have to turn to fall? Fall was cold and unwelcoming. Cars rolled passed me. I took out a cigarette and a lighter. I lit one up. The smoke warmed my body. I sighed. I suddenly got an unpleasant chill. Smoke rose from my cigarette. Normally, I would just steal my mother’s cigarettes because the stores wouldn’t allow me to buy them. My mother was too stupid to notice that I took them. I’d usually blame the dog for eating the cigarette. I smelled like smoke to her which was a normal smell to her. She didn’t notice that it was smoke. She was usually too drunk to notice also. That was a normal thing to my everyday life. A drunken mother to come home to that didn’t care about anything at all, but herself, her food, her cigarettes, her pills, and her liquor that she always “had” to have.
    I smoked carelessly. I looked like an adult which helped so no police would stop me. I had long brown wavy hair. I was medium-sized. I had freckles covering my narrow face. I had blue eyes. My lips were full, and they looked as if I always wore lipstick. My eyelashes curled off my eyes as if always wearing mascara. I always passed as an adult even though I was only sixteen. I didn’t know how to drive yet. I didn’t have a license. Sometimes, I’d drive without a license not getting caught, but I didn’t drive often. I didn’t need to drive. Everything that I needed was in my reach. I’d have people drive me, or I’d walk. I wasn’t willing to learn how to drive. In my opinion I was too stupid to learn how to drive. I put out my cigarette, and walked to the lake. People were staring out into the lake. Couples were walking by it holding hands. Little children were tugging on their mother’s hands; trying to get their attention. Fathers were hoisting their children up onto their shoulders. Am I the only one walking alone? I thought as I stared out into the lake. Why did I care? I was always alone. I did everything by myself. I didn’t need people. I stuffed my hands into my jean pockets. Colorful leafs were floating in the lake. The sight was quite beautiful. But then again why did I care? Why did I care about anything? I didn’t. I hardly even cared about myself. I pulled the hood of my black and white striped sweatshirt over my head. I put my hands in the pocket of my black jeans. I sighed. Should I go home? I thought as rain began to pour. Everyone left the lake, and went home. Thunder started crashing, and lightening flashed. Here I stood in the rain, lightening, and thunder. I didn’t mind it. I thought it would be a pretty stupid idea to light a cigarette in the rain, so I started to walk home. Did I really want to go home back to my drunk and drugged mother though? I had no choice. I had thought of running away before, but where would I go? I had no money. I wasn’t thinking of getting a job anytime soon. My mother wouldn’t give me money. What would I eat? I walked alone in the rain wishing I was in a warm house without my mother in the picture. I sighed as I walked into my house.
    I found my mother on the couch watching television. She had a huge bag of potato chips that she claimed “her chips”, and a can of beer. She was smoking a cigarette. Her hair was worn out, and tangled. Her once beautiful self was all worn out. I stared at her. She looked at me, and how wet I was and then chuckled to herself. She then looked back at the television. “Hey kid.” She said. It was the first time she actually said “hey” to me for over two weeks. I hated how she didn’t call me Karen. That was my real name wasn’t it? Isn’t that what she named me way back when dad was still alive? And still she refuses to call me Karen. Way before dad died in the car crash mom never smoked. She never smoked, drank, or took so many pills. She was beautiful. She had straight brown hair, and a tan face. She had a beautiful figure. Now her hair was tangled, and lost most of its color. Her tan face was all pale. Her beautiful figure was all distorted now. “Hi.” I replied hastily. “Get me another can of beer.” She demanded with a thick drunk tone. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say no. If I did she would possibly hurt me, or yell or scream senseless words. That’s how she was when she was drunk, and drugged. I walked quickly to the kitchen stepping over the trash on the floor that was never bothered to be picked up. I grabbed the beer, and tossed it to her. She didn’t say thank you, or even smile. She just took it, and opened it. She drank it like she was dying of thirst. Once she was finished, she threw the can on the ground. The dog came, and sniffed the can and backed away. I went into my room. I sat down and stared at the ceiling. Posters of bands covered my walls. Cigarette packs that I stole from my mother, that I claimed my dog ate, were hidden inside my dresser. My lighter was in my pocket. I grabbed the lighter, and played with it, switching the flame on and off. What if I burned this whole house down with this? I thought looking into the flame. My mother, my dog, and I would die. This whole house would be nothing but forgotten ashes. Would the teachers hate themselves for giving me such bad grades? Would the kids be mad at themselves for always picking on me? Would my mother hate herself while she was in her grave for never being there for me? As I thought I lit up a cigarette. They’d be sorry if I died.
    I looked over at my clock. It was 5:00pm. The rain was still thudding against the roof of the house. Lightening streaks ripped across the skies. Thunders shook the whole house. I went downstairs to cook myself a hot dog. My mother was already in bed. She either passed out in bed, or just went to sleep early because she felt sick. My dog nudged me. “Leave me alone.” I said bitterly. The dog hung his head down, and walked away. I wasn’t in the mood for anyone or anything. Since when was I ever in the mood for anyone or anything? I thought as I put the hot dog in a bun. I squeezed a bit of ketchup onto the hot dog, making sure not to use all of the ketchup. I ate alone on the couch. I turned on the television. The news was the first thing that turned on. I changed the channels to a cartoon. I sat down. I bit my nails. That was a bad habit I had. I’d do it whenever I was nervous, mad, or sad. I stared down at my feet. My converses were black, and brown dirt smudged them. I quickly finished my hot dog, and watched the television for a bit. I wish I could escape into a television cartoon. I thought. Maybe in a cartoon I’d be accepted. Maybe I’d be smarter in a cartoon. Maybe people wouldn’t be so horrible, and stupid in a cartoon. But cartoons aren’t real… It isn’t reality. I stared at the television. Why can’t you be real? I thought staring at the cartoon characters with jealously. They had problems in the show, but they’d always be solved. That’s how cartoons worked. There would always be a problem, and then it would soon be fixed. Why couldn’t life be like that all the time? Why couldn’t problems be solved so easily like in shows? In shows the solving didn’t have to make sense. In real life it had to…
    The cartoon I was watching ended. I looked at the clock. 8:00pm. it was early, but I decided to go to sleep. It was Sunday. Sadly, I had school tomorrow. Gross .That horror place! I don’t want to go back there ever again. But the weekends couldn’t last, and I didn’t like here anymore then I liked school. They both were awful hellholes. I couldn’t tell which one was worse. They both were the same amount of horror. I lied down in my bed. The mattress was hard, and I begged mom for a new one but she didn’t listen. She didn’t care. I pulled the sheets over my head, and shut my eyes tight hoping for sweet dreams and an easy day. I woke up to the sound of my alarm clock ringing my ears. I lied still. I smashed the “snooze” button, and shut my eyes tight. You’re going to be late for school. A voice in my head said. I don’t care. I don’t even get the point why I even go to school anymore. I get horrible grades, I don’t even try or care, I always get yelled at for being so incredibly carless, I barely have any friends… If I skip school I bet my mother won’t even care or notice. I didn’t want to go at all, but I forced myself too because I didn’t want to be here with my mother either. I got up. I stared at the picture of my father on my dresser. It was the picture of me, him, and my mother all together. I was probably three in the picture. I was hoisted on my father’s shoulders. My mother was smiling up at me. I must’ve been laughing when the photo was being taken, so I had a huge smile on my face. I kissed the photo lightly. I tried not to cry. I didn’t like to cry. It showed a sign of weakness. I got dressed. I put on a black t-shirt, and jeans. I then pulled on my converse, and brushed my brown hair. I grabbed my backpack and stuffed crumpled old homework papers in it. I stared at my backpack. What a pitiful sight. It was full of homework that was supposed to be turned in awhile ago, homework that was never done, old projects, and broken pencils. I sighed. I grabbed a granola bar, and stuffed it in my mouth. I then left for the bus stop. The bus stop was right up my street. I lived on a poor street. All the houses were old, and the paint on them were all chipped. They almost looked ready to fall apart. Mine looked the same way. It was old, small, and the white paint on it was almost chipped off. It was a sorry sight
    I stood at my bus stop. Two other teenagers who went to the same High School as me were there. One was my only friend; my best friend, the other this quiet smart girl. My only friend was named Cory. “Hey Karen.” He said. He was smoking a cigarette. The girl was coughing from the smoke, but Cory didn’t seem to care. I took out a cigarette too. “Hey. What’s up?” I asked casually. “I’m pissed off.” He said. “Why?” I asked. “My dad woke me up by screaming in my ear. He told me to get my fat lazy a** out of bed.” I rolled my eyes. “I woke up to my stupid alarm clock. It wouldn’t shut up.” I answered. He took a big puff from the cigarette, and dropped it to the ground. He stomped on it. “Yeah. My alarm clock is my fat a** of a father.” He said. I shrugged. The girl stared at Cory awkwardly. Cory pushed his black hair over his eyes, and sighed. “Sometimes, I seriously wonder why I wake up in the morning.” He said shifting the weight of his backpack on his left shoulder. “I wonder that all the time.” I said blowing the cigarette smoke in his face playfully. He playfully punched me in the arm. I smiled at him. He smiled joyfully back. Soon, the bus came. Cory and I sat down in a seat that was near the back. I looked at my finger nails that I painted a black color awhile back. The paint was chipped off, and looked ugly. I examined them. The bus came to a stop. It picked up a girl with long blonde hair. She was pretty. She has dark blue eyes. She had pale white skin, and was wearing a pink tang top. A white sweater barely covered her skin. She wore a skirt that was just long enough to cover her bottom. She wore pink ugly shoes, with small heels. She was the biggest b***h in the school. I stared at her. Cory looked up at her with confused eyes. He hated her. She was the leader of her stupid little group. There were two other girls in her group. They followed her everywhere. They were clones of her. They always laughed whenever she said a hateful comment to some poor idiot. She sat next to her two other little friends. They started giggling and laughing. “What do you think they are laughing about?” I asked Cory. “Do you actually care?” He rolled his eyes. “No.” I answered quickly. He stared at me funny. “Are you okay?” He asked. “Of course.” I said staring at my nails again. “How is your mom?” He asked concerned. I looked at the ground. “The same…” I replied. He looked at me with so much concern. I wanted to change the subject. I wanted to talk about someone other than me. “How is your dad?” I asked. “He’s still the same old guy who sits in front of the television all day, drinking, and yelling.” He replied. “That sucks.” I said. “Yeah…” He answered simply. Cory’s mother died when he was five. She died of food poisoning. She ate some rotten fish. Cory didn’t like to talk about his mother, and whenever anyone brought it up, he’d look at the ground, and wouldn’t respond. He’d only respond if I talked about it. Cory dug into his backpack that was full of old snacks, and crumpled papers. He rummaged around until he found a wrinkled paper. He pulled it out, and smoothed it. He handed it to me. I smiled. “It’s beautiful.” I said. “Thank you.” I smiled. Cory was an artist. Well, an unknown artist. He drew me a picture of me. I was wearing a black dress, and a black veil. I was crying, and holding roses. I was staring down into a grave. The grave said R.I.P Hopes and Dreams I loved it. I put it in a safe spot in my backpack.
    The bus came to halt. I stared at my personal Hell. High school. Cory sighed. “Here we are…” He said bitterly. “It sucks that it’s a Monday.” He said. “Five more days in Hell till Saturday.” I said. “Then two more days of Hell with mom…” I muttered. Cory sighed. “We defiantly don’t have things easy.” He said as he stepped off the bus. “I know. I can’t wait until I’m 18, and can move out.” I said sourly. “In two years.” Cory said softly. I sighed. “Two years is just too long.” I muttered. Cory fumbled with the rubber band on his wrist. He always had a rubber band around his wrist for some reason. “I’ll see you later.” Cory said. I sighed. I hated that he wasn’t in any of my classes. I walked to math class. Math was first period. I had Mr. Hopkins for a math teacher. I hated him. He hated me because I failed everything in math. But didn’t I fail everything? The only thing I was good in was writing. I could write my own poems, quotes, and books. Cory was only good in art, and nothing else. “Hello students.” Mr. Hopkins said as he walked in the classroom. Students were yelling, hollering, talking, and goofing off. “Quiet students!” Mr. Hopkins shouted. I didn’t think I’d actually mind Mr. Hopkins if I was good in math. I think he’d like me better if I was actually smart in math. A few teenagers stopped talking, the others were ignoring him. I was silent. Who was there to talk to? What was there to goof off about? What was there to even talk about? Mr. Hopkins face turned a dark red. That’s what happened when he was angry. A few students laughed at him. I had to admit it did look a bit funny. He was bald, and the red would also show in his scalp. He looked ready to explode, and his whole body shook with anger. “QUIET!” He shouted loudly. Everyone instantly shut up. Mr. Hopkins returned to his normal color, and smiled pleasantly. “Please, take out the homework for last night.” He said calmly. Of course, I didn’t have it. I didn’t see the point in doing homework. It was too hard, and I would obviously do horrible at it. What was the point in doing something that would get me nowhere? Mr. Hopkins collected the homework. “I see you obviously don’t have your homework.” He said scornfully looking at me. I shrugged. “Did you get that note signed by your parents that said that you didn’t participate in class?” He said. I shook my head. “Why not?” He asked harshly. What excuse could I use now? I thought. “My mother wasn’t home.” I said simply. “How about your father?” Mr. Hopkins pressed. I never told anyone about my father except for my English teacher because I trusted her, and Cory. My English teacher was the one who supported me, and my writing. My English teacher knew all about me, and my mother. She offered to call the police, but I said no. I didn’t want to be put in a foster home with people I don’t know. “He was with my mother.” I said. “Nobody was watching you those two full days?” He asked in disbelief. Mr. Hopkins had given me that note Friday. “Nope.” I said. “I find that hard to believe.” Mr. Hopkins muttered. I shrugged again. “I might as well just call your mother to see.” Mr. Hopkins said. I rolled my eyes. As if I really care. I thought. He would just call, and no one would answer. He’d then leave a voicemail. I’d then go home, and delete the voicemail. The same thing happened all the time. I watched as Mr. Hopkins make his way to the phone to call my mother. Of course like I said she didn’t pick up. Mr. Hopkins muttered to himself something I couldn’t hear. I expected it to probably be an insult either against me or my mother. He pretended not to care, and strode over to the front of the classroom. “Sorry, students.” He said.