That Girl

by H. J. Bellus

  That Girl

  By H.J. Bellus

  That Girl

  Copyright © 2014 by H.J. Bellus. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: August 2014

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1500235826

  ISBN-10: 1500235822

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This one is for my girls, my book club, my gang…

  -The My Way Girls-

  #bebrave #dreambig #liveoutloud

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Leaving

  "I'm pregnant."

  "You’re what?" I shout in shock.

  "I'm pregnant. I'm so sorry."

  Pacing the tiny, musty room, I continue to shake my head, trying to believe my best friend, Jazzy, can’t be knocked up.

  "Jazzy, we made a pact. Always together forever, and when we turned eighteen, we were both leaving this dump."

  "I know," she chokes, falling onto the bare, dirty mattress lying on the floor.

  "How? Who? Why? Ah shit, never mind." I trail off.

  "Stay here with me, please."

  Jazzy knows better than to put me in this situation. We made this promise the day I turned twelve. We vowed to each other to run. Run as fast as we could the moment we turned eighteen. Jazzy is already eighteen, today is my eighteenth birthday, and she nails me with this news.

  How in the fuck did she allow herself to be sucked straight back into this vortex?

  Jazzy begins to beg. "Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me."

  We have been neighbors since we were eight and have lived through hell together. Jazzy only has Old Man, her dad, who is never around, between all of his biker drug runs and rallies, or whatever the hell he chooses to call them. I have my mom and her flavor of the month. Unfortunately, the past year she has stuck with Duane, who is my walking, living nightmare in the flesh, ready to haunt me around every corner. The one nice thing about Old Man is his being on the road with the motorcycle club gives us the house to ourselves.

  We packed everything of mine last night and brought it in one grocery bag to Jazzy's. I could get away with staying at her house most nights because my mom sold my mattress to a neighbor for some extra cash. So when I was forced to stay at home, I had to sleep on the floor in my room or on the couch.

  I hated those nights the most because Duane was always lurking. Jazzy gave me one of her dad's knives for when I had to go home. But, unfortunately, it took only one night of Duane, and me not having the knife in reach, to convince me that nothing – and I do mean absolutely nothing – would hold me prisoner in this lifestyle.

  I will take an empty future any day over living one more minute in this filth. Years of going to school smelling of stale cigarette smoke and rotting food was lesson enough for me. Having my classmates gag when I walked near was another reminder of how badly I wanted to flee, but now I'm being ripped from that too. Jazzy was the only person beside me the whole time. She is my rock and my person.

  As selfish as it may seem, sometimes there comes a point in your life when you need to live for yourself. I’ve survived in the shadows for the last eighteen years. Today, I vow to no longer live for others, but rather to make decisions based solely on me.

  "I can't," I finally tell her.

  "No," she wails, scrambling up from the mattress.

  "Come with me, Jazzy.”

  She looks away, unable to meet my gaze. "I can't go on the road expecting a baby. We only have three hundred and sixty-two dollars saved up for both of us."

  "I can't stay, Jazzy. I'm tired of smelling like cigarette smoke, having my eyes practically swollen shut from it, and I'm tired of being beat. My scars thrive in this place. I’m done being reminded of the pain. I’m so done."

  "Old Man said he would get you a gun for the next time. He said he can even have the club take care of him, just like he took care of Steve for you. He’ll keep us safe."

  "He ripped me, tore me, and took every ounce of me, right in front of my mom. If my own mom will allow that, how can I ever trust anyone again? I have to leave. Please, let me go."

  Dead silence fills the tiny room. The familiar sounds of dogs barking and the plastic cover that shields the window from the outside elements are the only sounds. Memories of miserable nights with only each other float around in my mind. Nights of painful hunger and beatings are the only memories I have of my mother and our so called home. Being sent home from school because of the bugs crawling around in my hair. My mom’s solution being to cut it all off. Those are the recollections I so desperately crave to leave behind.

  I refuse to morph into a woman like her. I no longer choose to stay here and willingly accept my shitty future. I always thought Jazzy and I would be together forever. But like the tragic tale that is my life, this would be just another dream crushed. Jazzy is the only piece of hope left here in Wisconsin, and the horrible truth is she isn’t enough to keep me here in this nightmare. The one and only action with a grand enough gesture to convince me stay here is a single bullet to my skull.

  Unable to look her in the eyes, I lay it all out. "I don’t have a choice, Jazzy. The world has dealt me a shitty hand, and I refuse to stay here and let it have its way with me. I love you, and I always will, but this has to be goodbye. Forever. I’ll leave your half of the money, but I have to go."

  "Just stay one more night with me, please," she begs as the tears start to flow.

  "My skin has been burned, cut, and torn in this town – hell, right in the house next door. I'm leaving, and it has to happen tonight."

  "Keep in touch with me," Jazzy demands as I grab my bag and hold my hand out for my part of the money.

  Half of the money will not get me very far. We were damn proud of the little we collected over the last few months from Old Man's pockets and the passed-out strangers in my house after a rager Duane had thrown, but now I only hope it can get me far enough.

  I figure I can get at least one hundred thirty miles from here with the money I have. I’ll find somewhere to stay and make some cash, then keep moving down the road. There is no way my mom would go any further than fifty miles past home in search of me. Hell, she might miss a party or a filming opportunity. With no high hopes set, my bag of clothes containing two outfits plus the one I am wearing, my scars, and half the money are the only things I am laying claim to. I will never need anything else from this town, this house, or this freaking neighborhood.

  “Take it all. Old Man will make sure I’m taken care of. Take it all, and run like hell,” Jazzy says as she turns her back on me. She never looks back while exiting her room.

  And just like that, I lose
my best friend in a matter of moments. This is not a type of relationship that can be rebuilt over time. No, the door was closed forever on it. Jazzy saved my life every day. Growing up, she was my everything wrapped in one. I will never forget her, but I no longer have room for her in my life.

  I wrap up my thoughts and tuck them into a deep, dark crevice amongst my other memories and gather all the cash from Jazzy’s mattress. Then I make my way out of her house for the final time. Jazzy is nowhere to be found. I thought she might be in her favorite spot on her worn-out couch watching some shit on television. She’s always nested there when she is pissed at me or Old Man. It’s her safe spot, but this time she’s gone.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Old Man asks from the kitchen.

  Jazzy and I have lied to Old Man so many times in the past about our whereabouts or his missing money, but this time it felt really wrong to lie, almost like committing a crime. Old Man may not be the picture perfect dad, but he always took care of us and loves his daughter more than anything. If he knew of our plan to run away, he would have cut our legs off without a second thought. I do hope the poor sap who knocked up Jazzy runs fast, because he will be catching one of Old Man’s bullets to the ass otherwise.

  “Girl, come clean, now,” he says as he walks closer.

  Unable to look him in the eye, I try to tell him half the truth, or at least the most important part of the truth.

  “I’m leaving, and Jazzy is pissed at me. I can’t stay here any longer, Old Man. I’d rather die than stay here,” I whisper, avoiding all eye contact.

  “Lift your head up, child.”

  If I’ve learned one thing, it’s to always listen to Old Man when he talks.

  “Now, I know life has sucked for you. I’ve tried my fucking best to protect you.”

  Now with tears streaming, I respond, “I know. I love you and Jazzy, but I can’t stay here. You can’t protect me from all of them. Moving across town or in here with you guys just isn’t enough. I have to go. Please don’t try to stop me.”

  “Why isn’t that stubborn-ass child of mine running with you?”

  “That’s her story to tell.”

  “You two little fucking shits have always covered each other’s asses, but I’m not liking the sounds of this.”

  “She’s hurt I’m leaving and not waiting for her. Take it easy on her.”

  “So, am I to assume this is why you two have been stealing money from my jeans when you think I’m passed out?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You fucking call me Sir one more time, and I’ll beat your ass, child.”

  I giggle at Old Man’s words, always so subtle.

  “Thanks for everything. I wouldn’t be able to run if you hadn’t been protecting me all these years,” I say between a combination of tears and laughter from his threat.

  “Here,” he says as he hands me a wad of hundred dollar bills. “Take it and don’t say shit about it. I’ll call a brother to come pick you up and drive you to the next town. I consider you my girl, and you’ll not be walking in the dark. No, you’ll be on the back of a bike, riding with one of my members to protect your ass.”

  “Thank you,” is all I can manage to squeak out.

  “And child, you best be checking yourself. If you think life here is rough, and I know you have your scars to prove it, you better keep your back to the motherfucking wall out in the real world. Don’t let anyone fuck with you, and if they do, you know my number and your way home.”

  “Thank you, but I’m never coming back or calling you. This is the end for me.”

  “Quit fucking thanking me. I’ll call Animal to come pick you up. You’ll be gone in fifteen minutes, lil’ sis. Just don’t fuck up your new life.”

  “Never let Jazz forget how much I love her,” I whisper.

  Chapter 2

  156 Miles Gone

  I have been groomed to survive; if survival is the game, I am the victor. Years of fighting just to make it one more day in hell is no longer my present reality or my future.

  I have already been a Vicky, an Aleesha, and a Mayas as I have traveled from town to town, making it miles and miles away from my personal prison. Now in sleepy small town, USA, I’m Jillian the waitress. Thank God for Old Man, because the little money Jazzy and I collected didn’t last very long or get me very far. His money has been a nice cushion to fall back on when little surprises popped up along the trail.

  I found a little family-owned diner where I currently work. It’s off the beaten path, and only frequented by locals. It’s the definition of low key, which fits my every need. At the age of eighteen, I want to avoid all the trendy places filled with vicious predators. My prior life has taught me to never trust anyone. I need at least a thousand miles put behind me before I will allow myself the privilege of breathing easily.

  Shadows of doubt linger constantly inside me, taunting, “You’ll never be happy. You were born to hurt. Get used to it.”

  There are days I fight against the voice, and other days I just let it win. If I can live the rest of my life alone and safe, that will be enough. My safety and learning to live easy with my scars will always be enough.

  My new enemy is faceless and is always there to bully me. Time. By avoiding a normal college life, I have nothing to do when I’m not working. My co-workers in each town soon learn I will pick up all unwanted extra shifts that predominantly fall on Friday and Saturday nights. The day of the week never matters much to me, because I just need money to keep running further and further away.

  Like I said, time is the current monster I battle. I found an apartment to rent above a garage while saving up enough money to move on. It’s a tiny space with a bathroom, sink, and plenty of rodents, but it’s Duane and trash free. The only thing to haunt me here are my scars. Time and my scars have the ability to devastate me at any given moment on any given day. Just one glimpse at one of the deep craters on my skin has the ability to send me into complete panic mode.

  The long, jagged scar that runs from my ear, down the length of my neck, to my collarbone is easy enough to forget. I am only reminded of it when I happen to catch my reflection in the mirror, which I have become a pro at avoiding. My short auburn hair is easy to fix without looking in a mirror. Some styling product and a couple quick flicks, and I have an effortless style. Several people compliment me on my trendy hair and ‘how cute’ it is. They really have no clue how much I hate my hair and my own skin I’m forced to live in.

  The scar covering my right hand tells a different story, an unavoidable story. The one that gets retold time and time again, and you would do about anything to bury its memory forever, but when the words of that story are imprinted on your hand, it’s impossible to forget. The marks of it haunt me, and when I have time, I find myself picking at it, which quickly invites Steve back into my memories.

  “Mom, I’m going to Jazzy’s,” I yell as I fling open her bedroom door.

  I’m not quite sure of the scene, besides lots of skin and bodies covering my mom and her bed, and Steve holding a camera.

  “Jesus Christ, Linda, you told me that little shit was gone. She just ruined hours of footage,” he says as he tucks himself in his pants and throws the camera across the room.

  “You motherfucking brat, get out,” Mom yells.

  “No, I’m gonna teach her a lesson.”

  I turn to run for the front door, but a strange man wearing no clothes rips me back by the hair.

  “I can teach her, Steve,” he says, chuckling.

  “No fucking way. She’s mine.”

  Steve grabs me by the arm and drags me into the kitchen away from the crowd. My heart wants to scream for my mom, but my brain knows she’ll never come to my rescue. Her friends will always be more important than me, always.

  “You will learn, little girl, to never bother us again. You will learn right now.”

  He turns the burner on high, and I think how weird that he’s going to cook on a spoon before teaching me.


  My mom rounds the corner, with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a stranger plastered to her backside.

  “Just keep it in your pants, because I don’t want CPS sniffing around again, Steve,” she mumbles.

  “Mom, I was just going to tell you I was going to Jazzy’s. Please, tell him to let me go,” I plead, struggling.

  “You’ll never knock, touch, or open that door again, little girl,” Steve hisses as he grabs my right hand and forces it down on the searing hot burner.

  No longer are the pungent smell of my house, the sight of my mom smoking, or the threat of strangers my greatest enemies. No, time has taken their place. The empty time in my life now allows my memories to haunt me every second, and if that isn’t enough, then my scars are visible reminders of my past.

  To get my mind off the past, I decide to go grocery shopping. All it takes is the three-second magic hair trick, and viola, I’m ready to go. This is the third town I’ve been in. Call it superstition or Old Man’s warning to “keep your motherfucking back to the wall,” but I map out my routes in every town, and then strictly stick to them. Each route serves its purpose and is very specific in nature. Route one is always from my front door to work, route two is from the front door to a grocery store, and on the days I am feeling adventurous, route three is from work to the grocery store, and then to my front door.

  Sometimes I silently dare myself to abandon the route and discover new territory, but the harsh reality of fear takes over. I wouldn’t call them panic attacks, but rather fucking common sense telling me to stay safe and keep my motherfucking back to the wall.

  Four blocks north, one block east, and then a half block north again, and my destination is on the right. So robotic my life is now, which I totally love. No pain, fears, or feelings to deal with. Full-on boring routine is my friend.