Page 20 of Broken Pieces
That isn’t me. It has never been me. Not once.
Not when boys whispered promises they could never keep, not when men in my mother’s orbit looked at me with the same hunger they wasted on her. I’ve never given anyone that power, and I sure as shit am not about to hand it over now.
The men I grew up around taught me early what it means to be used. They showed me how it looks when someone takes until there’s nothing left but scraps. They taught me how to spot it coming, how to slam doors before hands could reach in, how to make sure it would never happen to me. My mother never learned that lesson.
She let men grind her down until she was dust, until her body was just another stop for someone else’s hunger. She let them treat her as if she was disposable, leaving pieces of herself in every fucking ashtray, in every half-empty bottle, in every bed she should have walked away from.
I watched her hollow out, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but skin wrapped around regret. It was then, I swore I would never let anyone turn me into the same kind of nothing.
So I keep people out. It is not hard.
At school I wear the don’t-fuck-with-me mask. I build it every morning, layering cold eyes over tired ones, sharpening my words into blades, tilting my shoulders just enough to make even the bravest boys think twice before stepping too close.
It works.
They keep their distance, but the girls still hate me for it. They whisper, they laugh, they spit the same names into the air as if saying them makes them true. Slut. Easy fuck. Whore. They see confidence where there is only armor and assume I am opening my legs behind closed doors.
The truth is that no one has ever touched me. Not once. Not the way they imagine. I am still a virgin, though I hate the word because it sounds soft and delicate and breakable.
I am none of those things. I am iron welded shut.
Every time a guy tries—and they always try—I slam the door in his face. They flirt, they push, they think persistence will melt me, but I shut them down until they finally walk away, muttering insults to save face. I make it look easy, but it isn’t.
It’s just survival.
Because needing people only ever gets you hurt.
That is the first lesson I learned, and the one I keep relearning every time I forget myself. It is the reason I ended up here in the first place. I needed my mother. I trusted her when I should have known better. And in the end she made her choice, and it was never me. She picked the needle, every single time, and left me holding the empty space where a mother was supposed to be.
Now I am here. In this fucking dump that pretends to be a home, surrounded by shadows who shuffle through the same hallways, and breathe the same air.
Morning creeps in, dragging its feet through the cracks in the blinds.
The light cuts across the room in slanted stripes. I groan, every sound weighted, and force myself upright even though my body fights me. It feels heavier than it did yesterday, which is impressive when I think about how far down I already was. Every bone protests, every muscle aches, and my head is thick with the hangover of thoughts I never wanted.
Today is going to be shit. I already know it.
It sits heavy in my chest, drags through my limbs, sours the taste of the air.
The room stinks of morning breath and half-washed hair. That sticky blend of sweat and cheap detergent suffocating the room. I sit up slowly, every muscle aching like I ran a marathon in my sleep.
I hear Alyssa whimper again in her bed, that same soft, broken sound she makes every night.
Marnie’s already up, sitting cross-legged on her mattress, staring at the wall with her blank, empty expression like someone hit pause on her brain three years ago.
The third girl, Kelly, I think, but it could be Kara who knows, mumbles to herself from the bunk below mine, words slurring in a whisper I’m too tired to decipher.
I reach for the end of the bed where my jeans are bunched in a knot. Same pair as yesterday. The knees are ripped open, threads curling like wounds that never healed. There’s a faint burn mark on the thigh from when someone’s cigarette slipped too close.
I stretch out flat on the mattress, shove my legs into them, and lift my hips to drag the fabric over my skin.
My jacket’s on the chair, sleeves inside out from when I stripped it off last night. It’s frayed along the edges, wornthrough at the elbows, and the zipper only works if I hold my breath and pray.
I don’t give a fuck about trends or fashion.
Those things belong to kids with clean closets and parents who still pay attention. They are luxuries for people who aren’t clawing just to survive, people who don’t measure their worth in how long they can keep breathing in a place that wants to choke them out. My clothes aren’t about style. They are about endurance.
I don’t bother with breakfast.
