That Girl
Authors: 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
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
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.
