^Julia Bast^D12{FIN}

18

It's peaceful. A calm after the disaster that is me. My fist bleeds. Drip. Drip. Drip. My large chest heaves, air whisked into my lungs. I stare at the girl in front of me, nose dripping the same crimson that runs down my hand, her tears cut through the fake identity plastered onto her face with careful hands. Just seconds ago her pretty face was inches from my own. I exhale.

"Fight me, bitch." (Are the words still echoing?)

Stupid little bitch thought she had a chance. I am not some stupid little whore who you could shove around, don't fucking cross me. I am more than anything she could even dream to be. 

I reach my hand down. Offering false hope and polished nails. I smile, genuine smile showing off my row of crooked stained teeth. The girl looks at me carefully, the blue makeup surrounding her eyes drooling onto the pink that coated her cheeks. Her painted eyes stare into the hard icicles that glare back. I am genuine. (Be nice. as my mother used to say to the little nine year old me. I looked at her and laughed.) The girl falls for it, her elegant hand reaching up to grab my own. I yank, pulling the blond bombshell to my face. I stare at her hard, my smile gone... dissipating into a look of disgust.

The spit lands on her mouth. Dangling upon her pointy chin, threatening to plunge back to the ground, and I begin to laugh. "Don't ever fucking come near me again." the words are knives, whistling through the air and forcing themselves through her throat. I smirk as she sputters, trying to comeback without getting spit into her mouth.

"Bye-bye bitches." With a snarl, I'm out the door, yanking a bottle of moonshine along the way.

17

My pants are stained, long marks of indecency painted upon them as I stumble into my home. I giggle as my father peers at me from behind his paper. He gives me a small nod, before turning back to his readings. My mother wants to speak up, her worrisome eyes glance over me with disgust.

I may have a reputation of being a bit slutty, but does that really matter? Who gives a shit? I mean... I'm a teen... aren't I suppose to experiment?

I mock my mother for even daring to look at me incorrectly. More than happy to remind her of what a bitch she was when she was my age. I laugh as I describe how hot that other girl was, and how we made the boys in the room rush out with hands covering their crotches. She leaves the room in a hurry, eyes downcast, arms pulled in, and I laugh.

Prude. 

16

It's my sixteenth birthday. The candles burn brightly within the dingy room, cool air threatening to blow out the small flames. I stare at them intently, boredom permanently etched on my face. My mother voice wobbles as she gently sings the obligatory birthday hymn. I do not care about her, rather I'm thinking about the amazing party I should be heading too. I over heard some older kids talking about bringing over some cocaine to snort, and I can already feel the itching desire to finally be done with this stupid bitch.

I stare at the candles as my mother looks at me with hopeful eyes. I look up at her, wanting to grab her by her ears and shove her head into the wall. She seems hopeful, unaware of my displeasure and I want to scream. I want her dead.

FUCK THIS!

I stand up calmly, flames still burning hopefully upon the cake, dripping wax upon the chocolate surface. "I don't like chocolate..." my voice is low, but forceful. My mother's smile drops quicker than a bag of bricks.

"I'm sorry. Julia. Let me bake a different one," she is quieter than a mouse, scampering to collect her pathetic tesserae cake and head off into the kitchen.

My hand stings as I bring it across her face. My father finally looks up from his paper, eyes wide. He stares at me, peering into my dead eyes before letting out a snort and returning to his paper. I turn back to my mother, her red hair tossed across her face. I've never hit her before, always dreamed of it, but never actually gone through with it.

I leave her there, in complete shock, and toss back, "I'm going to a party," before slamming the door, and walking down the street.

I don't let them see just how much my hand is shaking.

15

I've decided to change my name. Evangeline.... its repulsive. Not a single nickname sound good. 

Eva. Sounds like a whore.

Evan. Last I checked I had boobs.

Angel. Stripper.

Ang. Bitchy.

E. What am I a crack dealer?

I enter my home, if you could call a shack a home, and set my bag on the ground. My friends expect me to bring the booze, and I'm tempted to grab my fathers whiskey from the cabinet, but I think better of it when I remember that he recently got laid off from his shitty job.

I'm cautious as I approach his drunk body. I want to gain his attention without getting lashes to cover up later. "Daddy..."  my voice is light, always keep it light with him, "Daddy, wake up."

I gently move the bottle from his hand before shaking his shoulder ever so slightly.

As he comes to, I make him a glass of water and a roll. My retarded mother is out Ripred knows where, being her usual unhelpful self. With my chin held high I walk over and sit next to him. He downs the water, trying to drown his hangover, before ripping apart the roll with his rotten teeth. I watch him in a mixture of disgust and awe, mystified by just how barbaric he was.

As he goes down on the bread, I begin with my proposal, "Daddy... I want you to call me Julia. Okay? It's my new name... okay Dad?"he looks at me, bread crumbs still stuck in his day old stubble, I briefly wonder it I've made a mistake. But I can't take another fucking day of being called such a stupid name. 

"Daddy," I begin again, "We both know Mom choose my name to spite you. We both know it! Why don't we just tell that bitch to go to hell, and call me something we both like?"

He burps loudly, grumbles momentarily before saying, "I don't care. I really don't care what you want to be called. I'll call you whatever you want if you just leave me the fuck alone." 

And I smile. Julia smiles

14

I'm kissing my first boy. We stand in the middle of the field, battling each other with our love. I want him to love me. To cocoon me in his embrace so we may stand together, united against all those dumbasses who think we are stupid to dare to love.

He understands me. He's more of a man than any of the others. I hold him tight, ready to show him that I love him, that'll I'll do anything as long as he holds me tight at the end of the day. I will not let anyone or anything stand in our way. So what if he isn't Billy?

Why does no one understand our love? Why can't we just all love who we want to? Why?

Who cares that he's almost 18. He loves me.

13

The rum tastes strange. I've never had it before. It's thick running down my throat, before settling heavily within my stomach. I almost cough, but the eyes staring back at me force a smile on my face to display my crooked teeth. I take another swig, trying to appear casual... normal.

My sweater is off-putting enough, considering the warm air of spring, but I refuse to take it off. I don't let anyone see my body. I can't look at it myself... the bruises are permanent reminders of just how hideous I must be.

With that I take yet another swig, wanting for the relief of intoxication, wanting to sink beneath the surface of sobriety and into the depths of alcohol.

Fuck this is good stuff.

12

"Hey, Evangeline!" 

I'm startled to see Billy Erics following me home, his smile lighting up his cheerful face. I smile back, as he is one of the few boys in school who isn't a total jerk. His bright eyes stare up at mine, as I've always been a little tall for my age and him a little short. He bumps shoulders with me, and the entire way home we try to push each other over. I almost fall flat into a puddle before he stops to ensure my wellbeing.

All that does is give me a chance to knock him flat on his ass. He laughs loudly, obnoxious and irritating like all twelve year old boys. I offer my hand, and yank him to his feet. I begin to slow down... as our street comes into view. I want to slow time. I want to make the seconds into days and milliseconds into hours, but the street inches closer until I can see my little shack.

I turn the corner, and Billy pauses before reaching for my hand and pulling me towards him. Friends for years, but I've always wanted more. 

Selfish. I think as I close my eyes, and I can't help but smile as I lean forward.

It all comes crashing down with the loud bang of my front door swinging open. "YOU LITTLE SHIT! HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!" 

Beer in hand, my father stumbles out the house. His feet fall in a crooked pattern as he struggles to maintain his balance. Fist swinging at air, he races towards us. Billy gives me one last look before bolting in shame. I want to call out to him, scream for him to save me, but nothing escapes my large lips. 

"YOU BETTER RUN YOU LITTLE BASTARD!" he takes a swig before turning back to me, "AND YOU LITTLE SLUT! GET IN THE HOUSE!" 

I can't help but sob as I turn homeward and pray he doesn't leave any lashes too deep.

11

She's scrambling, Saturday is always the worst for my mother. Her hands work slowly to prepare the meal for my father. She carefully prepares the meat and bread, and with steady hands she sets the table. But I can see the fear in her eyes. The intense desire to get everything right for him. The worry of what is to happen if he isn't happy with it.

It's repulsive, her fear. How does she allow this? Why does she do this to both of us? I want to help, but I've learned its best to allow her to do it herself. Less blame falls on me. 

By the time he comes home the meal is set, and she watches with nerves as he carefully chews upon the cheap meat we can afford.

He makes a face, and my mother's collapses. Her hands begin to shake, despite being so steady all day. And when he stands up, she cowers in the corner, leaving me alone to watch the carnage.

For the first time... I find myself blaming her.

10

I've begun drawing. Small little doodles that slowly grow and grow to become entire sketches within my notebook. My mother smiles briefly when I tell her, before returning to her meal to carefully craft whatever it is Dad wants.

Later, during the meal, I tell my father about these drawings, describing them vividly. He requests to see them, and I'm happy to pull out the dark notebook I have of them. He stares at them, studying the curves and lines, flipping through each page.

He looks me in the eye, and I stare at him with hope brimming in my blue eyes, "These are shit."

The notebook falls to the floor, torn in two and drawing ruined. Later, after I bitterly piece them together, I agree with him.

9

My father has found a job. Momma and I dance around the home after he leaves for his work. We laugh and sing, hopeful that for a life without poverty dragging us through the mud. I don't quiet understand the severity of the situation, but I can't help but dance.

Later, when he comes home unhappy, I see Momma's face and I know that there won't be anymore dancing.

8

Billy and I play together out in the field, jumping around as we pretend to battle the invisible enemies. We dance together in intense battle against the swarms of aliens threatening our families. Arms holding finger guns and legs racing us around the empty field, we laugh and play, not caring about the hollowness within our stomachs.

We stop when we hear shouts coming from my home. The banging of pots, and the sharp sound of skin on skin. He looks at me strangely, and I peer back at him, before turning back to the invisible aliens.

Now I have less drive, finger gun firing less and legs running just a little bit slower. I don't mind the aliens ripping my family and I apart.

7

On the last day of school my teacher notices the hand marks on my wrists. She grabs my hand as I threatening to throw some sand at a boy who made fun of me, but is shocked to see the dark imprint of fingers already there. She softens her grip and studies it intently.

Tears brim in my eyes as I prepare to spill the beans. My lip quivers slightly as she applies some ointment, and looks me in the eye. I open my mouth words almost tumbling out, but she turns away and doesn't look back. 

For days I hoped that she might have told her superior. But I am left with nothing.

I learned that day that no one would ever help me.

6

I look in the mirror for the first time in my memory. My house doesn't have one, but the school has rows of them in the bathroom. I study myself in the reflection, for the first time noticing that my hair gets dirtier and darker as I travels its way down my back. Its curls don't seems as curly in the mirror, more frizzy than I had thought them to be. My cheeks are hollower than I expected, and my eyes deeper than I could believe.


With a shake of my head I decide that I am not that girl in the mirror.

5

Billy and I play during the Reaping. As his family hold their breath for his oldest brother, we play tag amongst the crowd. And although we aren't aloud to run around, we have fun race walking between bodies, pushing the limit of what's allowed, but not daring to break the rules.

It's only after the male tribute is called that our mothers finally grab us, and force us to stand still. But I'm still upset, because I was the one still It.

4

Billy and I sit on the floor together, drawing as our mothers talk above us. I don't remember what I'm doodling, but I remember Billy's impressive skills at drawing rocket ships sailing through space. I also remember my mouther lowering her voice ever so slightly as she whispers to Billy's mommy, "Tom hit me today. I think ti was by accident and he was angry, so I'm not worried. Should I be?"

3

I only remember looking up at my father. He stands above me, peering down at my chubby face. He reaches down picking me up into his strong arms, before tossing me into the air to elicit screeches of joy as I come plummeting down to Earth.

2

I remember we used to have a dog. He died when I was two. I don't remember his name.

1

My mother sings me a lullaby. The words, the melody, and the place are gone. All that is left is her tight embrace, and a false sense of security.

0

I was born on December 30th to a shit-storm of a life.