||Jamilla Tate|| First Person||

The rain soaks into the fibers of my clothing as I carefully peak out from underneath the roof of the bus shelter I've taken refuge under for the past half hour, my hands trembling nervously. The bus was scheduled to come at 3:52 PM, as it does every day, but it hasn't come yet. My phone is dying, the battery drained to a meager 4% that is only good for glancing at the time every now and then, and it's 4:09 PM. I can't call home and let my parents know I'd be late because of my dead battery, and as I blink up at the cloudy sky, I consider just not coming home at this point-- I know that I'm utterly screwed at this point anyways. I slip back into the bus shelter, leaning against the glass wall as I watch the cars drive by, water spraying as the tires roll into the puddles. The headlights are blinding as the drivers attempt to see through the rain coating their windshields and the darkness the storm clouds bring. I wish I could hitch a ride right now, but I have zero survivalist skills in case the driver is a crazy ax murderer. I have to wait for the bus; the bus that condemns me.

By the time the bus rolls up, a full half hour late, my anxiety is practically eating me alive and the rain still hasn't let up. I fumble with the bus fare in my pocket, slipping the change into the change box as I nod at the bus driver, resentment coiling within my gut at the struggles of taking public transportation. I stalk down the aisles, heading for the back of the bus so I can cower in the corner with my wet clothes and even wetter hair without having anyone look at me. I wish I still had a decent percentage on my phone so I could listen to something that would take my mind off of the anxiety consuming me. I recently managed to get Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge by My Chemical Romance onto my phone, and I was dying to listen to it again. I press my forehead against the glass as I stare blankly ahead, aware now that it is 4:32 PM and that I was officially preparing for murder. Class ended over an hour ago, and my parents knew that. They wouldn't believe me if I told them that the bus schedule was running late because of the weather-- they hadn't before. I close my eyes and try not to wince as I recall what happened the last time I was late.

By the time I make it back to the apartment block that my family lives in, it's 5:03 PM and I'm practically trembling with terror as I jam the button for the elevator doors to open. I slip in once the doors part, reluctantly pressing the 5th floor button and the the close door button. I wring my shaking hands, bringing my nails up to my teeth so I can chew nervously on a hangnail. I could sense the punishment waiting for me, I could practically feel the tension as I make the walk of shame to my apartment door. I don't have a key. I knock. I announce my presence.

I wish she would yell at me at first when she opens the door-- I wish my mother would scream at me to get in because then I'd know what level of anger she is at, but instead, she opens the door and narrows her eyes at me. "Get in." Is all she says. I don't like exposing my back to her as I squeeze through the door way, and I was right to not feel safe with it because the second I'm inside and the lock is clicking, she's striking the back of my head.

"Ah!--" I yelp in surprise and pain as I stumble forward, dropping my backpack to the hardwood floor. I She fists my sweatshirt in her hand and yanks me up, glaring at me angrily.

"What did I tell you." She doesn't ask the question-- she never does. She just demands an answer. It scares me so much that the words don't come out. "What did I fucking tell you, Jamilla!" She backhands me when I don't answer, and the force of her knuckles is so strong that I trip over my feet and hit the hardwood floor on my ass.

"Home by 4:00." I choke out, biting back the tears that are threatening to spill. My eyes sting.

"And where the hell did you go?" She shouts at me.

"Th-th-the bus... the w-weather..." I stutter out. I can sense my father hovering by the doorway that leads into the living room, but I don't look up. You don't make eye contact with the enemy. He'll sense your weakness.

"I'm sick of your lies, Jamilla." My mother snaps, and then she's looking over in the direction my dad is standing and my heart is getting lodged in my throat. "Get the belt and handle this, I can't even look at it."

All I think about in that moment as my mother disappears into her room and my dad goes to get the whip is that my clothes are still wet and my ass really hurts from falling on it and that the belt is the last thing I deserve right now. I stare at the door ahead of me, hearing my father's footsteps in the near distance, and try to remind myself that one day I will leave through that door and never come back.

One day.

That some day came.

The August sun beats down on my back as I follow Josh and Tyler outside to the parking lot, where they told me that they allegedly parked Josh's car. I wince as the material of my t-shirt starts to stick to my back, my hurting back that can only remember the belt, but try to mask it with a yawn. Josh walks not too far ahead of me-- Tyler is practically skipping across the parking lot like Troy Bolton on five cans of Red Bull-- in an attempt to not leave me too far behind. When he glances back at me, I shoot him an appreciative smile. "He's not always like this," Josh slows his pace the slightest bit so his voice can reach me, "he just drank a lot of Red Bull." So I was right.

"It's refreshing," I tell him. When he raises his eyebrows, I go to clarify. "Happiness, excitement, y'know?" He nods then in understanding, and I suddenly wish I could say something witty to keep his attention. My throat closes up instead and my tongue dries-- my window of opportunity closes as Josh pulls open the passenger's side door to the car. "Is this the new model for the Jeep Wrangler?" I ask almost excitedly when his car finally clicks into the schema I hold for my favourite types of vehicles. It must have been the right thing to say because Josh is looking over at me with that incredible smile and I feel my knees go weak. Fuck, he's hot.

"Yeah!" He grins at me. "My parents got it for me a few months back-- do you like it?"

"Like it?" I furrow my eyebrows at him despite the smile still on my face. "I love it!"

"As long as you ignore the Taco Bell wrappers in the backseat, it is a pretty nice car." Tyler comments from outside of the driver's side door, his lanky frame leaning over the hood of the car. He holds out his hand, outstretching his arm to Josh in an attempt to reach him. "Key me, Josh." He tells his friend.

"First of all, the TB wrappers are yours, Ty. Second, I'm not letting you kill Jamilla before she even starts class here." Josh rolls his eyes at his best friend before gesturing for me to get in. I hesitantly pull myself up into the passenger's side seat before I begin to crawl my way to the backseat, expecting that a pouting Tyler would want the second best thing to the driver's seat, which is shotgun. I plop down in the chair directly behind the passenger's side seat, mainly because it'd provide me with a better view of the road. It also helps because Josh would be sitting diagonal from me, which means I can stare at him and he wouldn't even know.

God, that sounded really creepy. As you can tell, I'm not very good with this kind of thing.

Josh eventually clambers into the driver's seat as Tyler pulls into the passenger's seat, huffing because Josh wouldn't let him drive his Jeep. I hide my smile in my hand as Josh turns his key in the ignition, the boy laughing at his best friend's reaction. My eyes search the front of the console for the time, my eyes finally settling on the digital clock.

4:09 PM.

It isn't raining right now. I'm not in a bus shelter, watching as the cars drive by-- no, I'm inside of a car, safe. I breathe in deeply, keeping my eyes transfixed on the clock as we slowly pull out of the parking lot.

---

"So you guys have everything now?" I ask Tyler and Josh as the duo lug in a second laundry hamper along with Walmart bags filled with items and such for their dorm room. I didn't pay much attention to their checkout, mostly because I was too busy handling my own dorm problems. I managed to purchase new pillows and bedding sets for my own sake along with some snacks and other hygienic products, the basics that would keep me running until I can find a job that would work with my class schedule. It's not like I was accustomed to eating a lot back when I lived with my parents(it's scary to think that it's only been a couple of days since)-- not that they refused to feed me or something. When people hear the word abuse, the first thing that comes to mind is being beaten every single day, beer bottles, and starvation. I can't say that I've ever gone through something that severe, but at times, it mirrored that. Being inside that house made me so anxious that it felt like my stomach was permanently lodged in my throat that any attempt to eat or drink literally made me want to throw up.

My mother was practically bipolar-- some days, she'd be on a high and she'd be happy, buying takeout and telling me to put on a movie in the living room for us to watch. Those were the uncomfortably good days, the ones in which I knew she was going to snap again at the littlest thing and nothing could settle the fear rushing through my veins. Then there were the bad days, which happened more often than I wish. She'd be brooding in the living room, her eyes fixated on me the whole time I sat at the dining table with my homework, searching for something to beat me for. I remember distinctly her coming over to the table one time while I was doing my math homework and snatching my math binder right from underneath my textbook, tearing it open. She'd flip through the pages of work, searching for one bad test out of the abundance of 80s and 90s, and when she finally found that 64% hiding underneath piles of completed worksheets, I knew it was over. I knew it was over because of the way she'd grab me by the collar of my t-shirt right after, yanking me up to my feet while yelling for my dad to get the belt.

My dad is a different story. Unlike my mother, who has some bouts of calm, he's the definition of terrifying. He wasn't in a lot-- he normally was hanging out with his friends at the bar or a work--, but when he was home, it was a nightmare. I went to sleep early just so I wouldn't have to see him and so he wouldn't see me and feel the urge to pick on me, but on the nights when the homework swamped me to the point I'd have to stay up late, I felt like I was constantly on the verge of a panic attack. He was the worst. He had never had a heart when it came to me. He never cared.

He was the worst.

"I think so," Tyler replies, smiling down at the case of Red Bull that he has in the laundry hamper. I shake my head and smile, heading for my door. As I stop in front of the door that is cracked open just the slightest bit, I turn my head to glance at Josh and Tyler.

"Do you know what time it is?" I ask the boys. Josh sets down his bags so he can retrieve his cell phone from his back pocket. I watch as the screen flashes to light.

"5:03." He replies, looking up at me. The second the words pass out of his mouth, one of my bags almost slips from my grasp. I manage to hang onto the straps before they fall to the floor, my heart thudding in my chest as I quickly turn around to my dorm door. I nudge it open with my foot quickly, trying to remind myself that I'm not there. I'm not there. When my gaze settles on the window opened just a crack, the white curtains swaying with the slight breeze that is finally starting to make an appearance, I exhale the breath that got caught in my throat.

I'm never going to be there.

"You okay?" Josh's voice comes from behind me. I turn back to look at him, unable to hide nor help the anxiety that consumed me for just that moment. I gulp nervously and nod.

I'll be okay. I'll be okay.

-/::\-