I finally haul all of my stuff to the door of the condo, the red door emblazoned with the number 26 in the center. The six is nearly hanging off it's hinges. Great, my father can't even bother to super glue it back on. 

I reach for the door handle, but it doesn't budge. 

I lift my fist, beginning to pound furiously on the door. 

"Hey! Open the door, West!" I shout. The name of my father pops out of my mouth by force of habit. I don't think I've ever called him my father to his face. 

"Alright, jesus, brat." I hear someone muttering from the other side of the door, a few clicks, and it swings open to reveal my father. He's already taken off his suit jacket, now wearing a slightly unbuttoned white button-up and black slacks. 

I just scoff, pushing past him with my bag entering the condo. I am literally assaulted by the smell of weed, beer, and nicotine, and I make a mental note to pick up several barrels of febreze ASAP. 

"Follow me, your room is down here." He mutters, and I follow him down a short and narrow hallway, bare of any pictures or anything. The only things on the walls are a few scraps and water stains. Or maybe beer stains. He opens a white door, swinging it open and beckoning me inside. 

I enter the room. It's small and white, a little twin bed in the corner with light beige duvet cover. The bed is tucked next to a small but bright window, that doesn't have curtains but has a set of sliding shades. A small dresser and a desk. 

It looks more like a motel room than part of a home. 

"Thanks." I mutter, dragging my bag into the room and settling down on the bed. It creaks under my weight. 

My father doesn't linger long enough to even hear my thanks. 

I can hear the hum of plumbing and electricity above me, and I see the head of my bed is directly underneath a ceiling vent, that no doubt leads to the outside of the condo. 

Home sweet home. 

I grasp my phone in my hand, but I can't bring myself to open it. For the past two months I have been checking the device nonstop, hoping. Praying my mother will call, or someone will tell me that they've found her body.

That's the worst part of having someone in your life missing. 

You almost hope that they're dead because then you know that they're not suffering, or that they're not relishing in a life without you. It's an utterly selfish and bitter thought. That my mother is better off without me in her life. 

I used to think that I was the worst thing that happened to her. When I began to grow inside her stomach while she was a teen. When I was the reason my father left. 

But she would always tell me that I saved her, I saved her from a life of drugs and mistakes. Saved her from a life with my father. 

But I could never believe her. 

She was my best friend. I told her about boys, and food, and bitches at school. I would rant about my day and I would listen openly as she ranted about her's. We would sit on the front steps of our house, drinking too sweet lemonade and talking about nothing at all. 

And then she disappeared. 

And I am stuck with him. 

I know his girlfriend is probably in the condo right now, sucking his brains out. At least she won't get pregnant. 

I didn't make many friends at my old school, it was mainly made up of gang member's children and idiots, so I just made my way through it with a few acquaintances, and my mother's support. But now she won't see me graduate, won't see me get asked to prom. Won't see me throwing a cap up in the air as I prepare for my future. 

I have been forced to mature at a time when I should be the most childish. 

This room feels like a cage, trapping me inside and I need to get out or I'm going to explode. I remember seeing that along the road from the condo there is a string of strip malls. Maybe I'll go explore, get my mind off everything and anything. 

I strip out of my black dress, throwing it into the small trashcan in the corner. I want to burn this hideous piece of broken memories. 

Zipping open my suitcase, I grab a random pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. It might be cold this time of year, fall.

I step out of my room, and try to find where my father is, moving towards the sound of laughter and clinking of glasses. I enter a sort of living room, with a single red couch and a flat screen, bottles and old joints around the floor. 

I see my father lounging at the couch, a blonde haired girl at his side, and a few men around him. Seriously, the first day he has his daughter, and he invites over his sleazy poker buddies? 

I clear my throat, tapping him on the shoulder. He stops laughing and turns to look at me, annoyance bleeding from his face. His girlfriend/whore scans me up and down, scoffing at my clothes and crossing her arms under her chest. Seriously, the size of her breasts much cause her so much back pain. 

"What?" My father slurs at me, his eyes blazed red and his cheeks the same hue. Great, he's already baked. 

"I need a key for the condo." I say stiffly, suddenly aware of the perverted eyes of his friends turned towards me. 

"Why?" He asks, the mono-syllabic word taking him forced effort. 

"Because I'm going out to the stores. I need a key to get back in." 

He looks at me like I'm speaking Polish. His nose wrinkles in a stunned expression and his eyes begin to glaze over. 

"West!" I snap my fingers in front of his eyes, and he sobers up for a moment, looking up at me.

"What do you want?" He asks again. 

"Forget it." I roll my eyes, turning on my heel and exiting the room under a wave of wolf whistles from his pedophile type friends. Ugh. 

I move towards the door, and I see a pair of keys in a bowl by the door, and, like the rebel I am, I snatch it up. Maybe I can find a home depot or something to make a copy of it. 

I exit the house, flipping the hoard of idiots off as I go.

 ..........

The street is bustling, cars zipping down the road next to me and impatient passersby pushing past me on the sidewalk. It feels good to be invisible, to not have to put on a brave face in front of some stranger who asks me the same question as anyone else: "How are you doing?" 

I finally make it to one of the strip malls, and I enter the first shop I came to, a 7/11. We used to have one right near my house, and mom and I would always go on free slushy day, one time we brought a bucket and tried to see who could get a brain freeze faster.

A bell rings as I enter and I give a nod to the cashier, who smiles at me. She's a large african american woman, with kind eyes and a motherly stance. I wander around the aisles, not really looking at anything. 

The bell rings again, and three boys walk in, all cackling and talking rapidly in Spanish. I don't look up, not really paying attention to them. 

That is, until I hear a very familiar voice saying: "Mira, la puta está allí." There's that word again: puta. And I know he's talking about me. 

Against my better judgement, I look up, and my dark eyes meet a pair of steely gray ones. Are you serious, the first time I leave my house and churro decides to show up. 

Woopdy frickin' doo. 

I avert my eyes, putting my attention back on the hot cheetos in front of me. But I can feel his gaze still on me, and I try to hide as best I can without looking like a complete idiot. 

I pretty much fail entirely when I step to the side and somehow send several bags of chips and cans falling off the shelf. Seriously, making things fall from their containers must be my superpower or something: a gift and a curse. 

But I guess it decided to be more of a curse today when I pick them up and churro and his friends are standing right in front of me. 

 I freeze, a bag of freetos and a can of marshmallow flush clutched in my hands. 

"You following me now, gringita?" He asks, the ring in his eyebrow rising as he lifts his brow in a smug expression. His friends chuckle behind him and I roll my eyes. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. 

Now, again, I'm no Latina, but even I know what gringita means. And again, I'm not the type of girl to just take that, no matter how stupid it might be. 

"Nice to see you again, churro." He frowns at me, not expecting yet another retaliation. His friends grow silent behind him, looking at him to see what he would say. 

"You think you're funny? Around here, 'funny' turns into bruises."

I gape at him, figuratively of course. Who the hell does he think he is, threatening me like that?

Before I can respond, he opens his mouth again. 

"You may think that just because your papi is chill with my father that you can speak to me this way, but let me clarify something for you." He picks the freetos out of my hands and places them back on the shelf. "You mess with me, you mess with DQ."

I sense that that's a name for something, but I am still not the person you want to threaten, marshmallow fluff and all. 

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to mess with you and Dairy Queen." I make air quotes with one hand and make it very clear that I am giving him my bitch glare. 

The look he sees me could scare Hitler. 

But I don't back down. I never have and I never will. 

"Careful, gringita." He begins to back away. "Someday soon your pretty mouth is going to get you in trouble." And then he disappears again. 

And I'm left standing there with my jaw on the floor and the marshmallow fluff still grasped in my hands.