Blood Queen

A hand reaches out and grabs my sketchpad from my hands, another snatches away my ipod, muting the song “Perfect Weapon.” Of course. I think. I almost made it through the day. Alex and his posse of neanderthals quickly surround me as he inspects the screen of my ipod. One of the jocks to his left holds my sketchpad. Alex whistles loudly.

“Oooh, listening to that emo shit again, guess someone didn’t learn her lesson last time.” His smirking eyes flick up to me as his sycophants laugh. This little disney movie bullying scene is nothing but a cruel charade, we both know what's coming. This time he goes for my stomach first, hitting me so hard with his closed fist that I yelp and double up with pain. He uses my distraction to simultaneously yank my head back by my hair and kick my feet out from under me I slam into the ground and he kicks me in the stomach. Instinctively I curl into a ball to protect my vital organs but soon the bell signifying the end of school rings and they leave, after smashing the screen of my ipod and pouring milk on all of my drawings. It seems that ruining my day wasn’t even interesting enough to be late for the bus. Slowly, I pick myself up off the ground and wipe the tears off my blotchy face. People whisper and stare as they pass but no one bothers to help me. They never have, why should they now?

My sketchpad is too ruined to even bother trying to save anything so I just leave it in the garbage where they threw it and run into the bus circle just in time to see the tail end of the last yellow vehicle pull around the corner. Fuck, now I have to walk home; I’m already one of the last stops but now I won’t make it back until early evening.

I decide to take a shortcut through downtown Los Angeles but after only about two hours of walking I’m already starving. I don’t have any food with me and all of my money is hidden inside of my pillow. If I didn’t hide it, my father would use it to buy alcohol or drugs. Ignoring my growling stomach and the delicious smell of baking bread from a small patisserie on the corner I keep walking towards my father’s house.

It may seem strange to other people that I refer to it as my father’s house and not our house but if they met my father they would understand. It’s like living with a drunk, violent, deadbeat version of Alex.

Since we moved to LA three years ago, I've moved moved from shabby hotels and apartments more times than I can count. We can never stay anywhere longer than a month. Currently my dad is two weeks behind on his rent and we’re living in a tiny decrepit shack that looks like it's a good storm away from falling apart.

It’s about 7:00 when I finally reach my dad’s driveway, at least, I think it’s 7:00. I don’t have a phone or anything to be sure, besides, who would I even call? I know there’s a problem the second I open the door and take a breath. The smell of alcohol is thick in the air. He’s drunk again, this won’t end well. As I turn the handle on the living room door I pray a collective prayer to every religion I know that he’s passed out already and breathe a sigh of relief when I open the door and find him sprawled on the couch with his eyes closed. I’m halfway to the other side of the room when he springs up and blocks my way to the front door with surprising agility for someone so inebriate.
“So, who is it?” He slurs, glaring at me.
“What?” He takes several menacing steps toward me until he’s face to face with me.
“Who. Are. You. Sleeping. With.” His voice is raised almost to a yell and his bloodshot eyes shoot daggers at me. “What are you talking about dad? I-I missed the bus. My squeaky voice breaks. His weak composure snaps and he punches me in the face, his ringed hand opening a gash in my forehead. “Don’t you dare lie to me you little slut!” He screams, a vein bulging in his neck.
“Dad I’m a virgin!” I shriek and he ignores me completely.
“I raised you better than to be a prostitute!” He grabs my shoulders and throws me a few feet back into the wall; I take the opportunity to run, around the back of the couch, around my father who staggers after me yelling obscenities. As I sprint out the door a glass bottle explodes on the door frame behind me.
When I finally stop running a few blocks away from the house I sit down on the curb to try and fix myself up. My hands wipe away the tears and rearrange my bangs to cover the gash. For a few minutes I just sit there on the concrete, shaking. I have no one I can lean on and nowhere to stay tonight. There is no way that I can sneak back to get my money so I can’t get food or a hotel either.

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I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my thin gray cardigan, wishing I hadn’t chosen to wear my black dress. Despite the stereotype for California sun it’s freezing tonight and all my walking is doing nothing to lessen the late night cold.

My aimless wandering has led me to the dodgier part of downtown. A group of young men and women are huddled up in a vacant passing around a bottle wrapped in a crumpled paper bag. They squint dangerously at me as I pass. For another fifteen minutes I encounter no one. “Run.” Hisses a deep voice in my ear and I whirl around to see who spoke. No one there. I shake my head nervously. My heart speeds up along with my steps. I must be going crazy, it sounded oddly familiar, as though I had heard it before. “Quick! get out of here, It’s not safe.” Whatever this is has me thoroughly spooked now and I break into a run. Seconds later a pair of strong arms wraps around my waist and someone clamps a hand over my mouth so I can’t scream.

Notes

cliffhanger! I'll probably let you guys off the hook tomorrow. Let me know what you guys think in the comments, good, bad, I want to hear it all. :)

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