I'm 24 year old single female. Brown hair, brown eyes, short, nice figure; you know, the normal stuff. If you really want me to get specific, I guess I could say that my eyes can turn black, and that my hair is blackish brown with dark red highlights, but then again, why would anyone want to know these things? They're just details. Details that no one really wants to hear, but at the same time, are dying to know so they can totally understand who they're reading about. Well, fine. Let me tell you who you're reading about.
I am a human. a human being that has made some bad, bad mistakes. Ones that have gotten people killed, ones that led up to me lying there, coughing and trying hard to keep the blood on my face from getting into my mouth and seeping down into my lungs. I don't plan on going out like this, even though I was left for dead. I guess now you're yelling at the screen, demanding that I start from the beginning to so you can understand what the fuck is going on. Goodness, you're an impatient person.
PART I
I was born to a mother, no one else. My mother, Jane Harrif, never mentioned my father; she didn't seem to find him all that important to mention, so I never saw the point of trying to figure out who he was. We got along with one another well enough. Sure, there were the normal teenager vs. parent argument, but those never lasted long; after all, we were all the other had in the hell hole we had to call "home".
Bah, "home". Damn word. Damn place. My mother and I ended up in multiple apartments, going from place to place, trying to find some place that got me into a good enough school, and got my mom some extra spending money; that woman was addicted to manicures. She moved from salon to salon, each time being fired for the same reason: "mistreating the customers". I didn't want to know what they were talking about the first time my mother relayed this to me, and preferably, I'd rather keep this secret from me.
But the part of my life started when my mom and I seemed to have finally found a place in Chicago that was decent enough. This place had two beds and running water without a landlord hooked on crack; it was perfect. I was at the tender age of twelve, and just started the sixth grade at some random middle school that I can't remember the name of, and considering the relentless teasing I had to take because of everything from my living conditions to my early development into womanhood, I'd prefer not to give the effort to try and give you the details for the sake of this story. After all, this IS my story.
But anyway. I was sitting at my desk, blazing through my math and reading and all that useless crap that I had to absorb and regurgitate in order to pass that year, when there was a knock at the door (don't all stories start like this? It's pretty sad that mine starts like this too). My mom was washing up some dishes, and she went to the door and looked through the door using that ingenious invention, aptly named the "peephole". Suddenly, I hear my mom gasp and before I knew it, she was throwing what few belongings she had into her bag and was in my room, throwing things into my duffel bag and telling me to get my toothbrush.
Being the inquisitive little girl that I was, I asked her what was going on. She snapped that I should start packing, and ask questions later, when we're not in danger of dying.
Now, if you want your child to move faster, the last thing to tell them is that they're in danger of dying; it's not exactly a morale booster. I freezed, staring at her with my jaw dropped and my eyes bugging out of my head. My mother turned to me and shoved my bag into my hands, then grabbed her's and ran for the window on the other side of the apartment. Blindly, I followed her. She threw up the window, and glanced down to see that the fire escape was empty. She then tossed out her bag, and climbed out after it, dragging me with her.
I started going down the fire escape, but my mom grabbed my sleeve, shook her head, and pointed up. The door was pounded on again, and as we neared the two floors above us, I could hear the crunching of wood that can only occur when someone large and dangerous was slamming their whole body weight against it. My mom and I ran up the fire escape as quietly as a woman in her late twenties with a twelve year old child could with a bag of everything they own each.
We finally reached the top of the building, and my mom went over the top onto the roof first. As I reaching up to follow her, I heard muffled voices, something that sounded like a struggle ensuing, and two gun shots rang in my ears. I crouched down under the roof overhang, trying hard not the scream. I was so sure that my mother was dead. The woman that raised me was probably lying there, her own blood slowly flowing out of her body-
My thoughts and silent grief were silenced when I heard footsteps and something dragging along the roof, and those sounds were growing, coming closer. I huddled there, hoping and praying that they would somehow miss me, whoever they are, or maybe even spare my life, let me be, drop me off at an orphanage, anything. I held my breath as the footsteps stopped, and I heard a grunt as something was heaved over the side. I dared a look at the figure that was flying over my head, destined for the pavement below.
Confusion bloomed as I looked at the corpse that was plummeting to Earth. This dead being was bigger than my mom, and most certainly male, in a dirty suit, the mud stained shirt covered with blood. I dared a glance up and saw my mother looking down at me, an impressive looking handgun strapped to her hip.
"Kessie," my mom stared down into my awe-struck face. "What on Earth are you doing? C'mon, we have to keep moving."
To be continued.
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