pru / district 8

prudence

I've never really been one known to follow; preferring always to carve my own path, really. It's so much more fun, isn't it? Who wants to be one of the masses, one of the crowd, one of the many. I'd rather die, to be perfectly honest. There's a reason no one's ever accused me of lying or of telling a tall tale. Because my life is so unique ( so fucked up ), that it's impossible not to believe. You think I can make up the fact that my twin sister disappeared at fourteen only to wind up on the cover of magazines in One? Don't believe me? Just look at the '91 Spring issue of Rouge. She's there, trust me. You know, looks like me exactly...it's the twin thing,

After that, though, Mom was never the same. Dad had already left long before Paige or I could even walk or talk, which was bad enough - leaving her to raise us on her own. Two little hellions. At least I used to listen, but Paige was helpless. She didn't have a listening bone in her body. That's what Grandma always used to say. She's who raised me, you see. Because Mom couldn't handle it anymore. She'd lost her husband, then one daughter - her favorite, really. One day I came home from school to find her in the tub, but the water wasn't clear or soapy like usual. It was crimson, and her head was below the water.

At first, I didn't really understand. I rushed over, pulled her up to get a good look at her. Mom, mom, MOM! I remember starting to cry without realizing, like my subconscious had already accepted the truth: she was dead. I just didn't want to believe it, not one bit. I'd already been left by so much of my family - even my own goddamn twin - I couldn't lose the only person I had left. But I guess I wasn't enough for her to stick around. I saw the cuts on her arms and finally knew... 

She was gone.

Grandma took care of everything after that; she's always been the strong one in our family. Our beautiful matriarch, taking no shit and collecting names along her way. She organized the wake, the funeral, the burial. I know she spent every last cent she had, too, to bury her only daughter. To make sure she was taken care of properly, because in her words, she deserved that at the very least. But I know she never forgave Mom for doing it. Something so selfish, she always said. Under her breath, mostly. But I wasn't a little girl anymore, and I could hear her.

After that, I was never the same, though. And Grandma's bank account never recovered. It wasn't long until I was on the street, begging for food or enough money to buy a room at the shitty motel on the south side of town. Just so I could take a shower and have a night's rest. Eventually, though, I realized people don't like just giving away their money, but they don't mind donating it to those less fortunate. Especially if you've got a skill that can grab their attention, that can hook them if even for a few minutes.

That's why I learned to play guitar. I'm definitely not the best, don't get me wrong. I've got a nice voice, or so I've been told. But my hands are small and hard to get around the neck of my mom's acoustic. I know a few chords, a few progressions here and there. Just enough to play a little sound under my singing. But mostly, I think people just really like my lyrics. They're raw and real, about every day life - good or bad.

Maybe it'll turn into something someday. Maybe someone will discover me on the street one day, and I'll get whisked off to One to be a big, huge star. Maybe. But I'm not holding my breath. I did make a new friend recently, though. Her name is Millie and she wants to be a chef! Isn't that adorable. Her brother is a bit older, a little wiser. He's some historian or something at that museum on the rich side of the district. So boring, if you ask me. But the best part is, Millie asked me to move in with her! I guess she inherited some apartment from her Grandparents when they died last year. And get this, they skipped right over her parents and gave it right to her. Talk about lucky.

Yesterday when we were sitting at the coffee shop around the corner, the barista George asked me if I'd like to play a little maybe. For some under the table cash. I said abso-fuckin-lutely! It's not much, but it's a living. For now.

A job. A friend. And these two guys just moved in across the hall that seem pretty cool. Javier wants to be an actor, I think. He's a real pretty boy type, you know. Could get lost in his own eyes staring at himself in the mirror. But his friend is more interesting. We have the same sense of humor - self-deprecating, existential-crises, been through more shit than you can imagine. I like him, Cole.

I was telling my Grandma the other day: I actually made friends! I don't know if she believes me, though.