I let the water run down my body, allowing the cold to seep through my skin. I used the bar of soap, barely a sliver of anything at this point, to clean my hands and massaged a little into my hair. I smelt like the water, rusted. The water suddenly shut off and I used an old, dirty shirt to dry off, goosebumps pricking out from my skin, surprised be the sudden cold air. Not that it was any different from the water, just unexpected. Although I should have expected it, after the temperature dropped about a week ago and no one had paid the bills for the heating. I was only able to scrounge up a few dollars per week, not enough for hot water, but enough for the guy at the utilities office to take pity on me and turn on the water a few days a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays he turned it on, leaving me a few extra minutes Monday mornings. He never turned on the hot water though, didn't want to raise suspicions among his coworkers and loose his job. His name was Greg, a kind young man, although he was older than I. I pulled an old, ratty jumper on and some too-big jeans, worn with time. I looked in the glass. My face looked terrible. I was fortunate not to have too much acne, like some of the people, but the little I did have, a few on my nose and cheeks, were enough to get me called "Pimple-face". My eyes were bloodshot from crying last night, and there were dark circles under my eyes from trying to do all my homework last night. Not that it would matter whether I got all the answers right, my teachers would still fail me, feeling no sympathy for me. Not that I needed the sympathy of others. I sighed and looked at my hair hung, dripping wet. It might be pretty, if it wasn't so grimy, the oils from my hair clinging on for dear life, making it a brown-ish color at the roots and then blonder as it grew, hanging down to the middle of my back. Maybe when spring came I could cut it and sell it. That's what the girl did in that Christmas story Grandpa used to read to me. I combed out my hair a little with my fingers. I wish I had a brush sometimes. There were a lot of things I wish I had sometimes. Like fresh food. Or McDonald's. I walked down to the kitchen, picking up my old, worn backpack. There was no point in going into the kitchen for food, although my stomach was practically devouring itself. It had been doing that for a while. Thus the reason I only weighed about eighty pounds. I walked out the front door, looking down the street in case I saw one of my mother's or father's "friends". I was lucky to only see a couple of people down the street, a hooker and two men from the looks of it, getting off on some or another drug. Probably cocaine. That's what my mother did. That's what my father sold. I ran down the opposite direction anyway, looking back every couple of strides to make sure there wasn't anyone there. I made it to the end of the street, and then, with my sheer luck, ran into one of my father's "friends". By whom I meant enemy, a fellow pimp wanting to take over the street. I looked up at him, the terrifying, looming figure I remembered from long ago. I was eight when he raped me. Of course, it wasn't my first time to be raped. He tilted my chin up to his face, smiling with rotted teeth.
"Hey there, pretty thing. Thought about my offer yet?" If there was anything in my stomach, I would have thrown up at the smell of the alcohol, heavy on his breath. It may have only been six-thirty in the morning, but that apparently didn't stop him. I jerked my chin away, knowing that it was all I could do unless I wanted to earn a fresh bruise across the face. Which I didn't. I had enough bruises from getting beaten around last night when my father had come home in another of his drunken rages. He swayed slightly, but didn't fall over completely. I stood frozen until he belched and pushed me out of the way. "You're loss, then." I waited until I saw him fall over and pass out drunkenly on the next-door neighbor's steps. Not that they would notice. They were never out anyway. Kevin, the pimp's name was. I listened to him snore once, twice, three times before running away, praying my day would get better but knowing that it wouldn't. I walked the rest of the way to school, ducking through alleyways at the sight of any other human. I almost skipped, ran off to go get high or wasted. But I dragged myself through the school. I just had to get through four years of hell. Well, three and a half now. Then I could take the ACT or SAT or whatever they were called and then I could get out of Kansas, get out of this school, get a real paying job and go to a real college where I could make a name for myself. I managed to clear a path, people repulsed by the mere sight of me. If I was pretty, I'd be popular. I'd have a place in the school. But I wasn't. I was the absolute bottom of the food chain, lower than the rats that ran about in the kitchens. I was everyone's doormat, their shitting grounds. As if to prove my point, I got shoved into the lockers by some random person, who high-fived his friends. I sighed and made my way to my own locker, unlocking it quickly and shoving my books in. I grabbed what I needed and shut my locker, only to get shoved against a locker, the football team's captain's hands around my throat. I breathed softly, not allowing my eyes to water from the pain ricocheting through my head.
