I was running. Running and couldn’t get away. I didn’t exactly know what I was running from, or to. I just knew I had to get away. Looking back, I saw him. That man who always stalked me. The guy who loved me, and I hated him. The boy who wanted to murder me while I was at rest. He was carrying a bloody knife. I kept running and screaming. I tripped on something hard, and landed on the cold ground. “Help!!!” I tried to scream, though nothing came out. The man was getting closer. I couldn’t make out his face yet. He came closer…and closer…and –
“GINA! WAKE UP!” yelled my mom.
Sweat streamed on the side of my face. “Just another nightmare,” I whispered.
“Did you hear me? I said get up!” screamed my dear mother.
“I’m up! I’m up!” I yelled downstairs to my mom.
I despised her. I hated my **** life. So let me start off. My name’s Gina Love. My father died about seven years ago, when I was nine. My mom’s become an abusive alcoholic ever since. I lost all my childhood friends. My ex-therapist said I was “emotionally depressed.” What ****. I’m just angry and upset. That makes me emotionally depressed? Screw that. I’ll always remember one of the last things she said to me.
“Well…it has come to my conclusion that you harm yourself when you get depressed.”
No ****. I cannot believe I had such a dumbass therapist. And to top it all off, mother dearest doesn’t give a **** about my issues, ‘cause she’s too freaking busy with 'drinking parties' with her redneck buddies.
I crawled out of bed, getting ready for another exciting day of school. I put on my favorite Silverstein band shirt, and black skinny jeans to match. I cover up scars with fingerless arm warmers, jelly bracelets, and wristbands. When I got to the bathroom I straightened my silky, choppy, black hair. Looking through my drawers, I searched for my black eyeliner, mascara, and black eye-shadow. I applied them heavily, and took a look at myself in the mirror. Sighing, I put on my black flats, and fumbled to get all of my school supplies together. Glancing at the clock, it blinked in red numbers 6:15am. School started at 7:00am, and I usually left the house at about 6:30am. Just enough time to grab myself a coffee before school. I grabbed my dad’s old car keys on top of my dresser. I took the car from my mom, when I was 10, because I didn’t want her to sell it for extra money.
Walking downstairs, I saw my mom drinking out of a beer bottle on the ratty sofa, watching TV. Boy, I wish my mom had more class than that.
“I’m leaving, mom,” I said as I walked out.
“Good riddance,” I heard her slur when I shut the door. I blinked back tears forming in my eyes. Why do I cry? Why not.
Cincinnati was looking pretty this morning. Misty and foggy. The way I love it. I hopped in my dad’s old red Ford Taurus and drove to the nearest Starbucks. Which is where I work everyday after school. I ordered a tall vanilla latte. My usual morning brew. Climbing back in my car, I rested my head on the headrest and closed my eyes. I felt like I was staring right at my dad’s face.
“I miss you, daddy,” I said, looking at his face. “Come home soon?” I opened my watery eyes and sighed. I started the car, put on my favorite morning radio station, and headed towards my fabulous school. Hot damn. Soon enough, I saw good ole’ Withrow High School. Home of the **** Tigers. Whoop-de-doo. I parked in my normal parking spot and I glanced over and saw Jason Pierce getting out of his car. A total dumbass. He’s extremely annoying. Of course, in my opinion. To everyone else, he’s one of the most sexiest and popular boys at Withrow. Me and the absolutely marvelous Jason have been enemies ever since…oh, second grade? Yes, I realize that sounds ridiculous. You’re probably saying “Second grade? How can a fight be so serious in second grade?” Well, after that one little fight, things between me and him got worse. Hell, who knows what the fight was about? I can’t remember. He probably doesn’t either. I hate him, he hates me. There should be no issues, right?
Well...there is one.
I love him with all of my heart.