A descent into madness.
I knew that I was in trouble the moment I heard the furious call of my mother. The bitch was barking for me, it seemed. My platinum blonde, pixie-cut hair brushed against my face as I reluctantly pushed away from my desk, abandoning my writing to speak with my furious sounding parent. It wasn't a long walk, however. I needn't stand, my mom had already reached her destination. My neat, ivory door was swung open with a daunting ferocity.
"Abigail Contreras Merton. Care to explain to me what the hell this is?" I had already seen my cell phone, clutched tightly in her hand. I didn't need an explanation of what awful thing I had done that would condemn me to the depths of hell for all eternity, and I didn't really think she deserved one. So instead of being ethical and denying it or saying that I had lent the phone to my friend and she had made those sinful texts or some other lame excuse, I just shrugged my somewhat pudgy, pale skinned shoulders and looked at her with resentful green eyes.
"I dunno'. But my guess it's something called 'love'. I'm not sure if you've heard of it before. It's kinda awesome." I knew this was a mistake. But what's to stop me? I probably don't have long left to live with my born-again-christian mother, who I had always found myself despising. After this event, I'd bet all the money in the world that I'm going straight to the streets. At least I'd be going 'straight' to one thing! Haha. No.
"This is an abomination of God, Abigail! To have such... such feelings exchanged with another girl! Who's this Santanist, Hyacinth, you've been talking to so fondly?" There it was. My oh-so-loving mother's temper tantrum. All because the big man up in the clouds doesn't want me to love a person of my gender. Well, God, then why didn't you give me some male genitals and call it a day. Because surely you were the one to painstakingly craft me and every fiber of my being from hand. It couldn't possibly be anything scientifical, like evolution or atoms that could've done something so intricate. Not at all.
"Hyacinth is a girl from my school. She's my best friend. Actually, she's my girlfriend. She's both. Because I am the lesbian abomination who spawned from you, O' faithful and angelic mother." The look on her face was priceless. It was both horrified and enraged. Almost pitiful. But with her being the only person in the world I hated, and who actually managed to piss me off, I didn't care too much.
"Also, she isn't a Satanist. She's actually agnostic. I'd prefer if you didn't imply that the love of my life worships a bright red faun who would surely 'bless' her with the offering of eternal suffering down in Hellfire Ave."
"Love of your life? She is a women! I forbid you from doing this. Anyone who doesn't know that God is the only way
is spawn of Lucifer himself, whether they'll admit it or not. Of course they won't, though, because they're liars. Like you.You're a liar." Ouch. My pride is deeply wounded ( Fact : That was clearly sarcasm. ). But this did make me angry. She had no right to be telling me who I could and could not love, all based on gender and her precious standards
"You can't forbid me from anything, Mom! Yes, I am a liar. Only to you. Because you're such a plaintive, preaching bitch all the time. If I tell you anything about things that make me happy, you'll take it away because, as always, it must be so sinful, right?" I was raising my voice, the familiar anger I felt towards this unsupportive women who I was legally obligated to live with surging through my veins like a liquid tide of fire. But it wasn't quite a good idea to yell at my Mother. Talk about instant bitchery. Still, I wasn't prepared for what she decided to do. Pain plagued my arm as she sank her long, peach polished nails into my skin and yanked me to my feet.
"You worthless excuse for a child! For once in your life could you do something right? Give me any reason to love you? Because I don't!" Before I knew it, I had received a spectacular blow to the side of my head, her bountiful amount of rings cutting through my cheek and temple generously. I tore away from her grasp, feeling thin supplies of blood trickle down my arm, and quite a lot dripping down the right side of my face. My eyes were still wide with shock, and pain was blurring my senses. But eventually, I managed to steady myself. The second I did, however, I was engulfed by a haze of fury.
"Really? I'm worthless? Sorry, but that's bullshit. You're the worthless one! What kind of mother hits their own child? You should be fucking ashamed of yourself!" I snarled back, my voice rising to a shrill yell and my fists clenching. "Quite frankly, I haven't loved you since I was a little girl, and even then I was scared of you! I've done things right in my life! More things than you have! I've made friends, I've been kind, and I'm loved by everyone but you. My own mother. Who should love and accept me more then anyone else. Here's a word of advice : Go to hell!" Nice one, Abigail! You have successfully assured that you're going to be thrown out, and there's no turning back. Truly magnificent, bravo. Red faced, veins bulging on her forehead, my wonderful mother stormed to my closet and started aggressively tearing my clothes out and throwing them onto my bed.
"This is completely unacceptable, unforgivable. You will leave at once!" Truthfully, I was a bit scared. I wasn't sure how I'd be able to survive on the streets, and I didn't want to get Hyacinth involved. Intelligently, I managed not to consider the fact that it was mid-November, and I was in Augusta, Maine. The far northeastern corner of the United States. Dear cold climates, I love you, too. - Abigail. My mom shoved a bundle of thrown together clothes into my arms, and I grabbed what I could. I felt her cruel claw of a hand shove my back, and I hurried down the stairs and into the living room, determined to retrieve something to help my survival. A blanket, of course. I grabbed hold of a dandelion yellow comforter strewn across the plush, blue grey couch cushions and shoved my clothes into it.
"Get out! Don't you dare think of taking anything!" Dammit, why couldn't she be slower? Before I knew it, I was being thrown out the door. I might as well get some last words in, I've already lost all she could take from me. ( False, she could throw a knife at my face. But I guess a punch is cool, too. Come to think of it, my face is hurting like a bitch. ) One arm wrapped tightly around the comforter and clothing, and the other protectively enclosing my swelling cheek, I let out a harsh scream.
"Fuck you!" Slam! And now I was locked out. My breathing felt labored, ragged due to the ebbing fury. I let out a long sigh, slumping against the steps of the porch. Abruptly, I found that I couldn't see as well anymore. Seems like mom shut off the lights on my. Ouch. Overkill. I suppose these are her bonus points. Impressive.
I pulled my tattered, muddy coat as close to my body as I could, shivering profoundly in the bitterly cold winter of Maine. I'm lucky that this old thing had even made it into the makeshift pile my mom had flung at me. Still, frostbite wasn't one to give up. The right side of my face emitted a dull ache, visibly bruised from the my mother hitting me and throwing me out, post finding out that I was a lesbian abomination from hell. Turns out that no one wanted take me in, too concerned with their reputation, it seems. People can be so selfish. As we ( the other homeless and I ) were bustled down the streets, I wrapped my arm protectively around the young girl next to me, sharing the warmth of the blanket I had managed to take before my mother shoved me out the door. Her name, I had learned, was Frišrika. Frišrika Lįra Ingolfsson, to be exact. Frišrika was a young, probably around twelve, icelandic girl. God only knows how she ended up in Augusta, Maine. She, who had blonde hair that was still sleek and healthy, who had brown eyes that, although terrified and fragile, still held hope. In the capital of Maine, in clothes too airy for the winter, huddled next to me and clutching my hand as if I was her mother, in the streets. The cold, unwelcoming streets. Which, it turns out, happen to be the worst place possible in 2047. Not because they were cold and made us suffer from both exposure and starvation, like all the other homeless, but because the homeless were being drafted. Ever single one of our sorry, unwanted ass' were being shipped out to fight the biggest war for almost a hundred years.
From what I've heard, you know, before I was thrown out, it has been announced as World War III. Li had declared war on Aspen, and behind her back had formed a sino-russian alliance. So when Li declared war, Aspen was cornered between Rurik and him, so it was Europe, Asia, and North America who were now in a war. Thus making it a World War. Aspen had been desperate, seeing as everyone knew how outnumbered we were, and needed to expand the forces of the United States of America as quickly as she could.
So the homeless were to be trained as foot soldiers, marines, or pilots, regardless of age. All that mattered was that they could walk, and weren't on death's door. As all this was happening, our government was frantically trying to make allies with other countries. There are probably more ( or maybe less, actually ) now, but during my last update I heard that we had Canada, all of Scandinavia, England, Spain, Portugal, and Germany as allies. Perhaps we actually stood a chance after all. As we were being herded down a the street with the pack of homeless soon-to-be-soldiers, a loud voice crackled through a megaphone and suddenly we came to a halt.
"Welcome, brave soldiers. Thank you for...volunteering to serve your country. Because of you, America will remain a strong, unbroken nation." Woah, volunteering? I don't know about the others, but Frišrika and I had definitely not volunteered. She must have been thinking the same thing, because she tensed, leaning over and whispering to me.
"We didn't volunteer! How could they say that? I just want to go home, not fight in a war!" Her voice was trembling, and I saw tears threatening to spill over in her eyes. This is so wrong. Frišrika is just a kid, and I'm only a teenager. But all I could do was wrapped my arms more securely around her and look at the official standing up on a makeshift stage with cold, resentful green eyes.
"Please form an orderly, single file line in front of the vehicle and we'll get you moving as soon as possible." Then the crackling megaphone cut off, and we started forming a ragged line. The vehicle in question looked more like a cargo truck mixed with a dump truck, but with a few modifications. A messy roof had been built over the top of the back, and the door that would've opened to dump out sand or coal had been fused shut and armored, a door cut into the back of it so that we homeless may enter. Frišrika had begun to cry and was clutching to my shirt, her tiny body trembling as she sobbed. I vaguely heard her calling for her family, for wishes that wouldn't be granted. Eventually she had seemed to stop caring whether anyone understood her, and slipped back into her native speech of Icelandic.
"Ég vil fara heim! Ég vil fara aftur til Ķslands meš mömmu og pabba! Mamma, koma ogfį mér. Ég vil ekki aš fara!" Frišrika's voice was muffled by my shirt, and I just rubbed her back in a vain attempt at comforting her. By now, we had almost reached the front of the line, where it appeared that people were receiving some sort of injection. I heard yelling, and confused, I turned to investigate and found a cluster of people being pushed and shouting protests. Soon, a short hispanic teenager, her short ebony hair askew and her brown eyes frantic, had forced her way through the crowd and now stood in front of me.