Something Like Normal Read online

  Something Like Normal

  Monica James

  Something Like Normal

  Copyright © 2013 by Monica James. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: April 2014

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1499105643

  ISBN-10: 1499105649

  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

  To Samantha and Amelia...

  You're never too young to reach for the stars.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  ‘I’d rather die fighting than die for nothing at all.’

  Prologue

  I’ve always been a fuck up.

  When I arrived two weeks early, interrupting my father’s monthly poker game, I was a fuck up.

  When my mother walked out on my father and me, leaving without a word, I was a fuck up.

  When I tried to hide my father’s drug stash in my Malibu Barbie’s beach house, I was a fuck up.

  When I failed my senior year because I was too busy fixing my father’s ‘problems,’ I was a fuck up.

  But when I pulled the trigger of my Colt 911 and shot my father I wasn’t a fuck up.

  My name is Mia Lee, but that person died the day she shot her father in cold blood and felt nothing.

  Chapter 1

  New Beginnings

  “Good Morning, Miss. Where to?” asks the assistant, who I swear to Christ, could be Marcia Brady’s twin.

  Who the hell is so chipper at 3 a.m.?

  “Anywhere but here,” I mumble to myself while rummaging blindly through my backpack, looking for my wallet.

  My hand passes over my flick knife, my Colt, and a-ha, finally, my wallet. I internally celebrate, as the quicker I get this over with, the quicker I can blow this town.

  “Where can I go with this?” I ask, sliding my money towards her.

  The money I stole from my dad’s hidden stash as he lay unconscious and bleeding on the basement floor.

  The Marcia clone counts my cash while I nervously take in my surroundings, afraid I have been followed.

  This Greyhound bus depot is like all the others. It is artificially lit, and no matter how many coats of paint are applied, the bright colors that shade the walls look totally outdated and lifeless.

  But it’s the smell that gives me the creeps.

  It smells of desperation.

  “Um, which area are you looking at?” She smiles, blinding me with her bleached teeth.

  “Somewhere boring and quiet. Someplace I would blend in,” I answer honestly.

  Her hazel eyes widen, making it more than obvious she’s taking in my not so inconspicuous appearance.

  My wavy black hair flows down my back, stopping just below my shoulder blades, and I’ve worn it this way for as long as I can remember. However, one day I was feeling slightly adventurous and decided I needed to add some color into my blackened world, so I streaked my thick tresses with bright cherry highlights, hoping to experience a kaleidoscope of jovial emotion with the change. I liked the color, but sadly, it failed to modify my miserable existence.

  My icy blue eyes are always dressed up with the blackest black mascara, and accentuated with a decent coat of eyeliner. And you’ll never see my upper lids lined with anything other than dark kohl, giving me a, what did Cosmopolitan call it again? That’s right—seductive cat eyes—seriously, who comes up with this shit?

  I’ve been told my eyes are my best feature, and that I shouldn’t wear so much eye makeup, as it drowns out the intense color. But growing up in my world, it was best not to have any ‘best features,’ and just fade into the background.

  A small diamond nose stud sits low on my left nostril, and I have two piercings in both my ears. All piercings, except my tragus, was of course done by me. The pain was a reminder that I was alive.

  What wasn’t done by me is the moon tattoo I have inked on my inner left wrist. This ink holds much symbolism to me, and I’ve never regretted the day I got it at age fifteen.

  I guess my appearance really doesn’t scream, BLEND IN, but hey, I can try.

  “You could probably get to South Boston, Virginia on this. Scheduled arrival is in two days, thirteen hours and fifty minutes,” she says, tapping away on the computer keys quickly.

  I have no idea what they do in South Boston, and honestly, I don’t care. All I know is that it’s a small town in Halifax County, and it sounds perfect.

  “Sure, that’s fine. As long as it leaves tonight,” I reply hastily, as I really wanted this conversation to end five minutes ago.

  “You mean this morning,” she chirps in a singsong tone which grates my eardrums raw.

  I eye the ballpoint, which is sitting in its perfect little pen holder on the counter near me. As her irksome long ponytail swings with each of her movements, I contemplate jamming the writing implement into my ears, as the pain is more appealing than having to listen to Marcia Fucking Brady for one more second.

  She must construe my expression for someone who gives a flying fuck.

  “You know, cause its 3 a.m. and all, so technically, it’s morning,” she says, using her hands as explanatory tools.

  I know what the time is, and that it is technically morning, but my belief is, if you haven’t been to bed and a.m. ticks over, it’s still the same day as the one you woke up on.

  I drum my black painted fingernails on the countertop, impatiently waiting for this Brady reject to stop talking already and give me my ticket so I can get the hell away from her.

  Of course she doesn’t get it, and when I raise an unimpressed eyebrow at her, she just continues staring and smiling, waiting for me to remark on her lame ass observation. And they call me a freak!

  “Ticket,” I remind her.

  “Oh right, of course, sorry,” she stammers as she nervously taps away at the keyboard.

  Glancing around the small terminal once again, I see there are only two other people waiting for a ride, and I wonder if they’re escaping, just like me.

  A little girl is holding onto a ragged pink teddy, it hangs limply from her small fingers. She clutches onto her mother’s arm, her large eyes flighty and frightened as she studies her surroundings with close scrutiny. When the frayed teddy slips from her fingers, she reaches for it quickly, as it,
no doubt, is her security blanket and savior.

  Judging by the shiner her mother is currently sporting, these two are definitely like me.

  They’re runners.

  The young girl notices me looking at her and shyly hides her face into her mother’s side.

  I turn away quickly, not wanting to bother the kid, because I see myself in her. I, too, was once that scared little youngster. But I was forced to grow the fuck up, because in my world, being scared fated you to become a victim.

  Something I refuse to be ever again.

  “Miss Cassidy?” says Blondie.

  “What?” I snap, lost in my thoughts.

  “Your bus leaves in ten minutes.” She smiles uncomfortably as she finally hands me my freedom.

  “Super,” I reply, snatching the ticket and shoving it into my denim shorts back pocket.

  “Enjoy your ride with…”

  Turning away before she finishes her sentence might seem a little rude, but I have given her enough of my time, and my time is finally mine.

  I plonk down onto the hard plastic green seat, which offers zero comfort (I’d get better lumbar support sitting on a boulder), and slouch low, crossing my feet at the ankles as my eyes drift over my simple, plain attire.

  My black Converse high tops have seen better days, but I don’t have the heart to throw them away as I’ve had them for years. My toned legs appear pasty under the flickering lights, and as I begin toying with the frayed hemline of my blue denim shorts, I wish I was wearing my jeans.

  I stand at 5’5” and have always been underweight. I can thank my father for my gaunt frame, as eating nutritiously in my household was unheard of, so after a while, you just forgot you needed food to survive. But in my line of ‘work,’ you had to be tough, so I worked out. Yes, I may be skinny, but I can kick the ass of a two hundred pound slob any day. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience.

  I have been pale all my life, and I know set against the contrast of my black hair and indigo eyes, I kinda resemble the living dead. But hey, if you’re considered a freak, no one seems to fuck with you and leaves you the hell alone. And that’s how I like it.

  When I was a child, I used to look at all the actresses, wishing I had their womanly curves, but I have accepted the fact that at age nineteen, I’m not changing from what I am now, which is a lean, mean fighting machine.

  I frown solemnly as I peer down at the bag sitting at my feet, sadly realizing I didn’t have much to pack. My whole life fits inside this tiny, tattered backpack—my whole life which I packed in haste.

  But that doesn’t matter. When I get to South Boston, I will blend in, because I want to be like everybody else. I want to be normal.

  But I know normal is something I will never be, so I’ll settle for something like normal.

  The singsong voice jolts me out of my coma, but thankfully this time around, I am semi-happy to hear it, as it’s announcing my ride has finally arrived.

  Looking out the smudged window, I huff a deep breath of relief when my bus pulls into the lot.

  Freedom.

  All but springing out of my seat, I push open the double glass doors, anxious to make Los Angeles a distant memory.

  Los Angeles, population three million, eight hundred, and growing by the second, is now minus two. I used to call a little house in the suburbs my home, but now, now it’s my prison, filled with bitter memories and broken dreams.

  But who am I kidding, it was never my home.

  However, I used to feel safe there. Well, that was until my mom left me when I was three, leaving me in the care of my father. And honestly, if I had a choice, I’d rather be alone.

  Searching through my backpack, I find my Emily the Strange sweater and pull it on quickly, as I suddenly have a chill. But this is nothing new, as thinking about my father always has my blood running cold. Slinking into the hood, I rearrange the sides so my face is practically hidden underneath it.

  I like anonymity. This is my new life now.

  I am no one.

  “Miss?”

  My head snaps up and the chubby bus driver, with a friendly face and warm smile, is extending his hand out to me.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “Your bag,” he smiles, looking down at it.

  I snatch it up from where I dropped it and clutch it closer to my chest, squeezing it for dear life.

  When I don’t budge, he clarifies, “Can I take it for you?”

  I don’t want some stranger pawing my goods, and my fingers claw deeper into the tattered material.

  “Can I keep it on board with me?” I ask, not wanting to part with it.

  “Of course you can,” he replies with a big smile. “Welcome aboard.”

  Giving him a polite nod, I make my way over to the bus. However, before I ascend the first step, I look up at it with childlike eyes. I look up at it with hope and optimism, something I haven’t felt in a very long time. And that’s because sadly, my nineteen year old eyes have seen things a person my age should never be exposed to.

  Actually, regardless of age, no one should be subjected to the shit I’ve seen.

  But that’s in the past. The past I shot down some five hours ago.

  As I take my first step towards freedom, I feel my mouth tip up into a foreign gesture. One I haven’t been familiar with in a long time.

  I smile.

  Well, here’s to new beginnings.

  ’Cause the past fucking sucked.

  Chapter 2

  Survivor

  I awake, totally aware I’m drooling out of the side of my mouth, but I don’t have the energy to move. Only when I feel my neck creak in protest when I attempt to shift do I tastefully wipe the spittle off my chin with the back of my sleeve.

  My eyes drift over the boring landscape of grassy fields, tumbleweeds and the occasional shack. It’s not much to look at, but the further we drive; the further away I am from my past. I could be riding into hell, and that would be better than the alternative of staying in L.A.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, but it looks to be peaking on dawn—the best time of the day, where everything is fresh and you can forget the shitty day you’ve had. If only you could wipe it all away forever—oh, cue the violins.

  Rolling my eyes, I tell myself to harden the fuck up, because yes, my life sucked. And yes, my father made Hitler look like Santa Claus. But you know what? I’m not going to let that fucker dictate how I live my new life. And that’s because I won’t give him the satisfaction of being in control of me ever again.

  I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes, as being alone with these thoughts should be daunting, but funnily enough, they aren’t. They are a reminder of what I went through to get here.

  Do I feel guilty for shooting my dad in cold blood? No.

  Do I feel guilty for leaving his body to bleed out on the cheap, tacky linoleum? No.

  Do I feel guilty at all? No.

  No, no and no.

  Did my dad feel guilty when he came home high or drunk, and beat me every day with the belt I got him for Father’s Day? No.

  Did my dad feel guilty the first time he traded me to his drug dealer, Big Phil, to pay for his drugs? No.

  Did my dad feel guilty the day he decided he could use me to pay off his drug debt, in ways no nineteen year old girl ever should? No.

  That day was only two days ago, and that day was the day I had enough.

  That was the last day of my old life.

  So, the fact I have no remorse for what I did to my father doesn’t make me a bad person. It makes me a survivor. And in my world where it’s survival of the fittest, I had no choice. It was either him or me.

  And for once, I chose me.

  ***

  “Okay folks, we’re here. Thank you for choosing Greyhound to get you safely to your destination. We hope to see you again real soon.”

  I don’t know how many hours have passed, or come to think of it, what day it is. But none of tha
t matters because I’ve done it. I’m away from him and I can start afresh.

  It’s dark outside, and I can see the storm clouds beginning to pass over the murky sky—great, just my luck.

  Grabbing my backpack and eagerly making my way toward the front of the empty bus, elated to start my new life, I am stopped by the driver on the way out.

  “You got someone to pick you up, Miss?” he asks, head bowed, while writing in his log book.

  Instantly, my hackles rear up.

  Why does this stranger want to know my life story? Back home, no one asked me anything unless they wanted something.

  “Yup,” I reply dismissively, and descend down the steps as quickly as possible.

  Sinking into my hood, which is a habit of mine, I arrange it to cover my face and blend into the darkened night. I look around at the unfamiliar sights and take it all in.

  Okay, looks like I’m out in the middle of nowhere—fucking peachy.

  “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to scare you earlier,” someone says from behind me.

  Jumping back startled when I feel a strange hand rest on my shoulder, I swallow the bile in the back of my throat, as I hate being touched by people I don’t know.

  “Back off!” I snarl, spinning around quickly, ready to wage a war.

  The man, who I recognize as the bus driver, has his hands raised in surrender, looking a little pale.

  “Sorry, I mean no harm. I just thought you looked like you needed a place to stay, that’s all. There’s a motel not too far up the road. I know the owner, Hank. We go way back. You tell him Bobby sent ya, and he’ll fix you up a room till you find your feet.”

  Narrowing my guarded eyes, I ask, “What makes you think I haven’t found my feet already?”

  Bobby shuffles uncomfortably, and chooses his words carefully before he speaks.

  “I’ve been doing this job a long time, Miss, and well, you get to know people.”