1: MinishedA Chapter by Not hereChapter 1 “I thought I told you to stay away.” The bully, nearly twice as large as me, stared directly into my eyes. I didn’t look up from the ground between my dirty, cheap shoes. It was something I’d seen my mom do, and sometimes it worked. Other times, things went terribly wrong. For me, it went terribly wrong. “Look at me,” the heavyset boy commanded. I shook my head. My hair was hanging over my eyes, so I couldn’t even see him. Probably, he had a few of his “friends” with him. They always caught me whenever I tried to run. That was the other option. There was only hide or run. Most times, they had the same result. “I said” -he shoved me backwards off of the swing- “look at me!” I finally looked up, groaning as I felt the familiar throbbing in my head and the bruises on my back slapping hard against the pavement. Dirt playgrounds were so much better. When you got pushed down, it was like landing in sand. That was my favorite part about our beach in Florida- when you got pushed, it never hurt. “Miss your home?” he asked me, sticking out his bottom lip to mock me. “I can see it in your face. You wanna go home to your mommy? You wanna go back to Georgia?” His friends erupted in laughter, punching each other happily in the shoulder. They all began to talk over one another, shouting words at me and names that I’d heard so many times before. “Florida,” I muttered, “not Georgia.” The voices stopped. Every face turned down to stare at me. “Did you just correct me?” asked the lead boy. His name was George, or something like that. Maybe that’s why the first state he thought of was Georgia. “I…” “Did. You. Just. Correct. Me?” He spaced out every word, and I saw his hands clench into fists. “No, no.” I shook my head desperately. “Of course not.” “Do you know what I do to people who correct me?” he asked, taking a step towards me. I scurried backwards on the ground, scraping my elbow on the pavement, but that didn’t bother me. “I didn’t-” “I correct them back. Just a friendly favor.” He smirked terribly as he looked down at me. “There’s so many things I could correct about you.” “So many things!” said one of his minions, and a few of them started cackling hysterically. The others watched, prepared to enjoy the show. “How about we start with your face?” said George. He bent down and reached for me. <><><><><>
I stumbled into my home much later that evening, every part of my body sore. Despite the black eyes, missing teeth, and possibly-broken nose, I had been beaten, kicked, and punched so hard and in so many places. Needless to say, George hadn’t stopped with “correcting my face.” “Oh my god!” My aunt rushed over to me and held my head, staring at my distorted face. I winced, and drew away from her. “It’s fine,” I mumbled. That was the response I’d been taught in Florida. Anytime you got salt water in your eyes, sand in your mouth, and stepped on a jellyfish, you said you were fine. Because that’s all there was to do. “What the hell happened to you?” roared my uncle, stumbling into the hallway. He was still nursing a broken leg himself, and lumbered around the house all day on crutches. Good for him, I thought. At least he was in the Army. Pain doesn’t bother him. “Who did this to you, baby?” asked my aunt in that voice she always got when she treated me like a child. Or maybe that was her normal tone. “Do I need to go talk to his parents?” My uncle gave me a stern look. “I still have a few rounds in my gun.” That made me smile for an instant, but the pain it brought made me stop instantly. “Terry, that’s not funny!” shouted my aunt, punching him in the chest. “Sorry, babe; sorry.” I was halfway up the steps before they even realized I had left. “Come back here!” called my aunt. “I need to-” “I’m fine,” I said. “But-” “I’m always fine.” <><><><><> Tossing and turning in bed, I still wasn’t able to find any sleep. Whenever I rolled onto my side, there was a sharp burst of pain that made me flinch and instinctively turn the other direction. But that only hurt worse. “What’s the point.” I marched over to my black chair and sat down. When I was younger, I would spin around it until I got dizzy and fell, laughing, onto the floor. My dad would do the same, and we would have competitions to see who could keep spinning the longest without falling off. I won most times, but now I realized that he let me. The only picture I had of my mom and dad was sitting on the desk in front of me. I’d had others, but they all broke or got burned when the house caught on fire a few years ago. That was only a few weeks after I’d moved up here, living with my aunt and uncle. At first, I thought it was a temporary placement. I expected to go back to Florida anytime soon, and so I’d been careless with the pictures. Then I realized I wasn’t going back. Sighing with frustration, I leaned my head back in the chair. To the side, I could see out the window. All around us was a nice, wealthy neighborhood. The problem with the large collection of houses was that nobody ever came outside. When lawns are a decoration and not nature, there are no kids to get grass-stains on their jeans or play two-hand-touch in the front yard. There are no white, picket fences to be painted, no windows to be broken by stray baseballs, and no basketball nets to be fixed. Instead, there was money, there was books, and there was boredom. But one person I’d met was different. Abigail was fun, and daring, and sometimes reckless. She reminded me a lot of my friends in Florida, the ones I’d left behind without even saying goodbye to. Abigail was happy, and when she wasn’t happy she was angry. Her temper would sometimes change drastically, wildly, which made every day an adventure and unpredictable. The last day of school, she skipped and showed me around town. Up until then, I’d been home schooled. Next year, I was going to the high school, which I knew would be like a whole different world. In hopes of getting to know her better, I’d given her my number. But so far, I’d got no answer. <><><><><> My phone buzzed late that night just as I had finally gotten to sleep. “What the hell?” I growled, looking at my alarm clock. The bright, blue numbers told me it was nearly one in the morning. “Who’s still awake?” It was from Abigail.
© 2016 Not hereAuthor's Note
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