I pull the baggy sweatshirt over my head, arms disappearing into the sleeves. I check the mirror, assessing my outfit. Baggy black sweats, a baggy black sweatshirt, and worn-out black Converse. I tug the hood up, obscuring my short, light brown hair and hiding my dark, dead eyes. Just a basic girl, no curves to speak of.
I turn and grab my backpack. Heading for the bedroom door, I peek down the short hallway. Seeing no one, I start for the front door, twisting the knob to make my escape to school.
*My escape.*
It's five-thirty AM, still dark, and brutally cold. I've made this walk every day since freshman year. The cold never gets easier. An hour from my house to the high school. I live outside of town, and my adoptive parents, Lisa and Jim Castoff, don't want me on the bus. They say I need to exercise because of how fat I am, and I believe them. That's why I stopped eating. I sigh as I hit town, ten minutes left of the walk.
Soon I'm at school, barely seven-fifteen, and there are few students around. I walk onto the property and head for the school doors. As soon as I enter, warm air hits my cold body. I shiver and head for my locker on the other side of the school. I pull the hood further over my face, open my locker, and shove my books inside.
History. My first class. I love history. I love learning about people's pasts and how they overcome them because I can never overcome mine. They say a past makes you who you are today, but what does it make me with a dark past?
I slip into my usual seat in the back, where no one can see or bother me. Most teachers forget I exist, same as the students. It makes my life easier. No one to bother me, no one to dig around my business. Honestly, school is my safe place, well, other than my bedroom. I don't have friends because it would mess everything up.
No friends equal no secrets spilled, and spilled secrets always lead to pain. Sometimes physical, sometimes mental, and if you're unlucky, both. It's good to keep your head down and stay out of people's business and their drama. There's a balance that should never be destroyed, because if it is, there are always consequences.
The bell rings, and people start to show up. I watch the familiar faces settle into their normal tables: the smart kids, the cheerleaders, the jocks, the gossipers, and even the normals. Then me, in the back, the outcast. I laugh at calling myself an outcast because my last name is literally Castoff. Ironic, isn't it? Even God knew I was meant to be cast out.
The teacher walks in, closing the door behind her. She heads for her computer, looks around, sees who’s here and who’s missing. Then she starts the class, and everyone gets their stuff out. I write down whatever's on the board. This class is one of the easiest, which is nice.
I push my glasses up my nose as class ends. I wait for everyone to leave, then head to English. I move through the students stopping in the hall or on their way to second period. I keep my head down, watching around me as 'friends' hug and catch up before turning for their classes.
I don't believe anyone is really friends or 'in love.' We're all in high school, and most of us will forget each other once we're out in the real world. I know I won't remember any of them, but then again, I don't even know their names. Just their faces, faces I've known since freshman year. What's the point?
I enter my next class and take a seat in the back next to the window, just like every day. The same thing: go to school, attend classes, then go home to the place I call 'Hell on Earth.' I hate it, but it's where I live, the only place I can go. I can't leave, they'd just find me. They always find me.
Even after high school, I'll never be able to leave. They can't take care of themselves, they may work, but at home it's different. I do the chores and the cooking. And in return, I get beaten or verbally abused. I don't feel the pain anymore, or at least I try not to. They feed on weakness and fear. You can't show weakness. You'll always die.
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