A Story in New York (1)

I strode over to the street sign and stood facing the road watching the people rush busily back and forth in their vehicles. Look at them, like ants they are scurrying back and forth searching for something that they cannot find, I thought, and snorted in distain. Some guy across the street was checking me out; he looked to be in his mid-twenties. I glowered at him and he raised his eyebrows in the exact same annoying way Dad did back in Vienna, Austria.

So this is New York…hmmppff feels like home already, I thought moodily and crossed the street with my backpack slung over one shoulder. I look like every other teenage female.

I have a stud in my nose, currently it’s a black gem, opal in fact. It gleamed menacingly in the harsh sunlight. I was used the night before I left and bruises in the shape of fingers now encircle my arms, Dads’ going away present.

I have a light brown tan, green eyes and black hair. I wear a tight fitting black shirt, black skinny jeans and a black leather jacket with black volleys, I like the colour black and unlike others; it actually looks good on me. People have to do a double take when they first see me, I’ve been told that I look dark and brooding yet easy going and easy to approach, but I’m not that sort, I’m not a goody-goody two shoes like most other girls my age. Since I was thirteen, I have been a glorified alcoholic I’ve smoked pot since sixteen years of age and more often than not I spend most of my nights inside a prison cell for drunk and disorderly behavior, striking police officers and generally being the greatest pain in the arse ever born. My parents know and either don’t care or are so lazy that they couldn’t be bothered to come get me. When my parents first found out what I was doing, my Mum almost had a cow and Dad decided to use me in punishment. Since I was young and old enough to remember, my father abused me, he told lies about me, used me, threw things at me, he found a fault in everything I did and punished me for things I didn’t do, I guess the alcohol was a way to release my pain, it just let me forget everything. Since the day I was born my parents have hated me, I wake up every morning dreading what father might do to me, lately I’ve been getting questions from people at school about my bruises, father usually hits me where it can’t be seen but recently he has been becoming increasingly violent, now he hits me wherever is available.  When I was around the age of nine or ten, a friend of mine who is now twenty-four taught me how to fight with knives and hand-to-hand combat, she taught me to defend myself, she knows about Dad and the things he does to me, she is the person I confide to about everything, she’s a part time counselor.

I have almost no friends, the ones I do have are like me and mostly I end up sharing a cell with them for the night. Some of them are prostitutes, drug dealers, wanted men; almost all of them are part of a gang and regularly jump people in parks for kicks. Great friends huh.

I’m currently on break from school and I decided to come to America for the holidays, keep myself ‘occupied’ instead of ‘sitting’ at home, more of a way to get away from Dad and his greasy fingers than anything else.

 My name is Emilie, Emilie Rosemarie and I am eighteen.