Cars go by, Life goes on, chapter 1
Reminder: I know none of this is factual. It's called fan FICTION, remember?
Adrienne's POV
I could see the headlights getting brighter. They lit illuminated my face, and penetrated my eyes. The car driver could see me, now. The breaks slammed on, but the car was getting closer. I stood, dead still. There was a chance that I would live if I got hit. A small one. There was a chance that I would die if I got hit. A big one. Life or death? Hit or miss? Living in pain would be tragedy. Dying in pain would be tragedy. No one would miss me. No on would care. The car was getting closer, I could feel the warmth of the headlights giving me a soft caress my face. The car was within feet of me now. I dug my feet into the hard pavement, and gripped my hands. Last chance to kiss myself goodbye. The car honked in desperation. Life or death? Life or death? Life. Death. Life. I jumped out of the way of the car, and landed on the soft grass.
"Hey, trust me, you don't want to die!!" the driver shouted out of his window.
Oh yeah? And how would you know?
I sat on the soft, wet grass for a while, grasping life and reality. I grabbed a clump of the grass, and squeezed it in my hand, draining all of my emotions into it. I held onto the grass until my hand was white. I slowly let go of the grass, and watched as it fell into the ground. Blood went rushing to my hand. My veins filled up with the hot, red liquid, creating a tingling sensation that went rushing to my fingertips. I got up off the hard ground, and started walking. My feet slapped against the cold, wet cement. I dug my hands into my pocket, and came out with twenty dollars. Not enough to buy a hotel room. Where else was I supposed to go? Home? Home; where I would get beat, and yelled at for nothing? Sometimes I wonder why I was even born, and what happened to my dad. Was my mom a prostitute? Because I sure wasn't supposed to be born. How did my mom and my step dad, Brandon, meat? Why didn't my mom give me to a foster family, or an adoptive organization? Why did she decide to keep me, and have the burden of a child? I stopped a block away from my house. What was I going to do now? Maybe I should have let that car hit me. There was always going to be another truck that would come. Did I want to die? No, not truly. I decided that I would go home.
"Where the hell were you?!" my mother screamed at me, as soon as I stepped through the door to my house.
"Why do you even care?!" I screamed back.
I watched as my mother's face got angrier. "I don't care!!"
"Then why did you even ask me that?" I cried I was clenching my fist, all of my energy aimed at to the unforgiving pain of not jumping on her, and pounding her with my fists. It was difficult not to, but finally my head overcame my body, and I slowly relaxed my hand.
"Because you were out past your curfew!!" My mom yelled.
"What curfew?" I asked my voice on the brink rage.
My mom was silent for a while; finally she spoke, her voice no more than a whisper, "Adrienne...Just go."
I stared at her, shocked, "What...?"
"Just get your stuff and leave! I've put up with your shit for nineteen years! You should have been moved out ages ago! Just get out of my house I don't want to see you ever again! EVER!" She slapped me, hard and painfully. "Understand?!"
I could feel blood running down my nose. And my eyes watered up. Tears of pain, more emotionally than physically. I looked into my mothers eyes, was she serious? Dead serious. I headed for my room, got all my stuff, which was nothing really but money, and walked out without a word of goodbye.
* * *
"Do you have a room available for tonight?" I asked the woman behind the counter at a local cheep hotel.
The hotel was run-down. It looked like a hotel in a scary movie. The hotel that the little girl or boy gets killed in by the murderer, the hotel that the devil comes to and kills the kindness, the hotel with profanity written on the walls in blood. I wouldn't have been surprised if Charles Manson himself had once been in this hotel. Maybe even Jeffery Dahmar.
"Yes, we do ma'am," the lady said, nodding. Her eyes were sort of half closed. Not in a stoned way, more in a smart ass way. When she blinked it looked like she was trying to get something out of her eyes, and she rolled them back as she did this. She smacked her gum too. It was irritating.
"Can I book a room, then?" I asked.
"Smoking or non-smoking?" she asked. She blinked and smacked some more.
"Non smoking," I said.
She typed something into her computer and popped her gum, "Room 329 will be thirty dollars," she said, handing me the key.
I took the key, and dug in my bag, coming out with thirty dollars.
As soon as I got to my room I threw my bag on the bed. I collapsed onto the bed opposite the one that my bed was on. The crisp sheets crunched as I landed on them, and the blankets ruffled. I lay there for awhile.
Slowly, I drifted in to the awareness that my life just got even messier. No home, nothing; nothing at all. My eyes filled up with wet tears. I turned over and started crying in my pillow, my tears soaking into the fabric. I dragged myself off of the bed, and tumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower, so the whole hotel wouldn't hear me crying my eyes out and screaming. I sat on the closed toilet, and wept with misery. Then the anger came. It washed away my sadness with one wave of antagonism to my mother. I started to scream, and throw things. Then, just like that, the sadness was back. Anger and sadness: depression.
I went back into my room, and went searching in my bag. Finally I found it; I pulled it out, and went back into the bathroom. My tears were coming and going; bleeding out like a storm surge of depression. I looked at the sharp object in my hand, and turned the water on higher, the louder the better. I turned the glinting object over, and gripped it tightly in my hand. I didn't want to die, but I wanted to hurt myself, and wash out my feelings without drinking or doing drugs. Cutting was perfect. And the object was a knife. I put the tip of the object on my arm, just above my vein. I dug the tip of the blade into my arm; I grimaced with pain, but continued to direct the knife deep into my flesh. The rest of the knife fallowed, and a stream of blood went flowing down my arm to my fingertips, finally falling in droplets to the ground. My mind was washed out with a wave of pain. I stared at my bleeding arm for a while. I got up from the toilet, and found some bandages in the cupboard. I squeezed them on my arm for awhile, finally I let go, and picked up the knife again. I repeated what I had done the first time, and this time I didn't even grimace. I cut myself until I started feeling dizzy. I put bandages on my arms, and put pressure on them for about a minute or two, and then I wrapped new, clean bandages on my arms, and left them there.
Before I left the bathroom, I picked up my knife, and flicked the tip of the blade at the mirror.
"That's to you, mom," I muttered, glaring hard at the cold image starring back at me, "For never caring about me, or doing anything to help me grow up, and for marring that piece of shit, Robert."
I went back into my room, my mind full of nothing, but pain, and cried myself to sleep.
Adrienne's POV
I could see the headlights getting brighter. They lit illuminated my face, and penetrated my eyes. The car driver could see me, now. The breaks slammed on, but the car was getting closer. I stood, dead still. There was a chance that I would live if I got hit. A small one. There was a chance that I would die if I got hit. A big one. Life or death? Hit or miss? Living in pain would be tragedy. Dying in pain would be tragedy. No one would miss me. No on would care. The car was getting closer, I could feel the warmth of the headlights giving me a soft caress my face. The car was within feet of me now. I dug my feet into the hard pavement, and gripped my hands. Last chance to kiss myself goodbye. The car honked in desperation. Life or death? Life or death? Life. Death. Life. I jumped out of the way of the car, and landed on the soft grass.
"Hey, trust me, you don't want to die!!" the driver shouted out of his window.
Oh yeah? And how would you know?
I sat on the soft, wet grass for a while, grasping life and reality. I grabbed a clump of the grass, and squeezed it in my hand, draining all of my emotions into it. I held onto the grass until my hand was white. I slowly let go of the grass, and watched as it fell into the ground. Blood went rushing to my hand. My veins filled up with the hot, red liquid, creating a tingling sensation that went rushing to my fingertips. I got up off the hard ground, and started walking. My feet slapped against the cold, wet cement. I dug my hands into my pocket, and came out with twenty dollars. Not enough to buy a hotel room. Where else was I supposed to go? Home? Home; where I would get beat, and yelled at for nothing? Sometimes I wonder why I was even born, and what happened to my dad. Was my mom a prostitute? Because I sure wasn't supposed to be born. How did my mom and my step dad, Brandon, meat? Why didn't my mom give me to a foster family, or an adoptive organization? Why did she decide to keep me, and have the burden of a child? I stopped a block away from my house. What was I going to do now? Maybe I should have let that car hit me. There was always going to be another truck that would come. Did I want to die? No, not truly. I decided that I would go home.
"Where the hell were you?!" my mother screamed at me, as soon as I stepped through the door to my house.
"Why do you even care?!" I screamed back.
I watched as my mother's face got angrier. "I don't care!!"
"Then why did you even ask me that?" I cried I was clenching my fist, all of my energy aimed at to the unforgiving pain of not jumping on her, and pounding her with my fists. It was difficult not to, but finally my head overcame my body, and I slowly relaxed my hand.
"Because you were out past your curfew!!" My mom yelled.
"What curfew?" I asked my voice on the brink rage.
My mom was silent for a while; finally she spoke, her voice no more than a whisper, "Adrienne...Just go."
I stared at her, shocked, "What...?"
"Just get your stuff and leave! I've put up with your shit for nineteen years! You should have been moved out ages ago! Just get out of my house I don't want to see you ever again! EVER!" She slapped me, hard and painfully. "Understand?!"
I could feel blood running down my nose. And my eyes watered up. Tears of pain, more emotionally than physically. I looked into my mothers eyes, was she serious? Dead serious. I headed for my room, got all my stuff, which was nothing really but money, and walked out without a word of goodbye.
* * *
"Do you have a room available for tonight?" I asked the woman behind the counter at a local cheep hotel.
The hotel was run-down. It looked like a hotel in a scary movie. The hotel that the little girl or boy gets killed in by the murderer, the hotel that the devil comes to and kills the kindness, the hotel with profanity written on the walls in blood. I wouldn't have been surprised if Charles Manson himself had once been in this hotel. Maybe even Jeffery Dahmar.
"Yes, we do ma'am," the lady said, nodding. Her eyes were sort of half closed. Not in a stoned way, more in a smart ass way. When she blinked it looked like she was trying to get something out of her eyes, and she rolled them back as she did this. She smacked her gum too. It was irritating.
"Can I book a room, then?" I asked.
"Smoking or non-smoking?" she asked. She blinked and smacked some more.
"Non smoking," I said.
She typed something into her computer and popped her gum, "Room 329 will be thirty dollars," she said, handing me the key.
I took the key, and dug in my bag, coming out with thirty dollars.
As soon as I got to my room I threw my bag on the bed. I collapsed onto the bed opposite the one that my bed was on. The crisp sheets crunched as I landed on them, and the blankets ruffled. I lay there for awhile.
Slowly, I drifted in to the awareness that my life just got even messier. No home, nothing; nothing at all. My eyes filled up with wet tears. I turned over and started crying in my pillow, my tears soaking into the fabric. I dragged myself off of the bed, and tumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower, so the whole hotel wouldn't hear me crying my eyes out and screaming. I sat on the closed toilet, and wept with misery. Then the anger came. It washed away my sadness with one wave of antagonism to my mother. I started to scream, and throw things. Then, just like that, the sadness was back. Anger and sadness: depression.
I went back into my room, and went searching in my bag. Finally I found it; I pulled it out, and went back into the bathroom. My tears were coming and going; bleeding out like a storm surge of depression. I looked at the sharp object in my hand, and turned the water on higher, the louder the better. I turned the glinting object over, and gripped it tightly in my hand. I didn't want to die, but I wanted to hurt myself, and wash out my feelings without drinking or doing drugs. Cutting was perfect. And the object was a knife. I put the tip of the object on my arm, just above my vein. I dug the tip of the blade into my arm; I grimaced with pain, but continued to direct the knife deep into my flesh. The rest of the knife fallowed, and a stream of blood went flowing down my arm to my fingertips, finally falling in droplets to the ground. My mind was washed out with a wave of pain. I stared at my bleeding arm for a while. I got up from the toilet, and found some bandages in the cupboard. I squeezed them on my arm for awhile, finally I let go, and picked up the knife again. I repeated what I had done the first time, and this time I didn't even grimace. I cut myself until I started feeling dizzy. I put bandages on my arms, and put pressure on them for about a minute or two, and then I wrapped new, clean bandages on my arms, and left them there.
Before I left the bathroom, I picked up my knife, and flicked the tip of the blade at the mirror.
"That's to you, mom," I muttered, glaring hard at the cold image starring back at me, "For never caring about me, or doing anything to help me grow up, and for marring that piece of shit, Robert."
I went back into my room, my mind full of nothing, but pain, and cried myself to sleep.
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