Alyssa
Buzz buzz buzz
I roll over to face my alarm clock. Ugh. Another Monday morning. I hate Mondays. Why? “Doesn’t everyone hate Mondays?” You ask. But hear this, Mondays are assembly days. An hour wasted sitting in a gymnasium listening to teachers talk about boring excrement that no one listens to anyway with a bunch of restless teens. Oh joy. One of the perks of my life.
Want to know another?
Knock knock knock
“Alyssa!” My mother screams to make her presence known. A simple knock wouldn’t do, she has to make a point of trying to damage my eardrums by screaming my name at the highest decibel possible.
Speak of the devil and she shall appear, my very wish. Not.
The woman is always complaining about something or other, usually me. It’s like a compulsion — for sympathy or attention from any person who will listen. Ever since her younger brother died of cancer five years ago she’s been a drunk: a ghost of the woman my father once fell in love with, a home-wrecking whore, and to think I used to look up to her.
Ha!
I’ve just graduated from high school and soon I’ll be working towards my Veterinary Science degree at Preston university in L.A.
I’m nervous about starting college but at the same time, it’s a solid one way ticket out of here, out of this house, and out of Bellflower for good. The anxiety I have has more to do with the social aspect rather than the academic. I’m an only child and have very poor social skills, I’ve never been very good at making friends. I’d be classified a loner if it weren’t for my best friend, Cameron. We’ve really grown close over the summer despite only meeting for the first time a few months ago. Since then we’ve started training together, hanging out, and going to the movies. Normal stuff. It’s been good!
I’ve always been short tempered and closed off. That’s potentially why I have trouble making friends.
I work two jobs, you could say, and am in the gym the rest of my free time. I’ve always had a great talent for defending myself, so I started out street fighting about a year ago. While my waitressing gig is solid, the money from my fights is what covers the bills.
My mom and I live in a two-bedroom tiny shit box apartment in Bellflower, California. While we may live together, it’s not by choice. I pay my half of the rent and bills and she pays hers, I don’t know how the hell she gets money, she’s jobless but I don’t really want to know.
Knock knock knock
Ugh. I wonder what she wants this time, but I don’t bother answering.
I ignore her and pull open the doors to my closet. I pick out my clothes thinking about how I should display my awesomeness today. I take out a thin sleeveless gray, waterfall cardigan and pair it with a plum purple singlet and a pair of black jean short shorts.
All the while the banging on my door is consistent.
After dressing, I pull on my black boots and my black gloves. I only wear the gloves when I’m not wearing long sleeves to cover the faint pink and light brown scars that adorned my wrists. A couple years back my home life was really bad and I cracked a few times. I was young and unable to handle my emotions in any other way.
Quickly grabbing my keys, purse and book-bag, I head for the door. Stopping, I prepare myself. 1…2…3…open.SLAP.While I expected it, I didn’t see it coming. The sound of her palm connecting with my cheek rings in my ears. I brace myself as I keep my feet locked shoulder width apart to hold me steady. Sometimes my training in the ring comes in handy. I can feel the distinguished imprint of her hand tingling on my cheek.
I avoid looking at her as I shove my way out into the hallway, stopping to lock my door before moving towards the front door. Detouring quickly through the kitchen I pick up an apple and fill my water bottle from the sink, all the while blocking out the berating my mother is screaming my way.
Leaving the house, I quickly make my way to my beat up light blue Volkswagen bug and drive like a bat out of hell down the street.
I swear that I’m trying my hardest to search for a new place but it’s so close to the start of school that everything would have been taken up months ago. Plus, there’s also the other issue that my price range brings. Although I have enough in my savings account to cover the necessities, I can’t afford to splash out on a ritzy apartment.
I pull into the parking lot of Albourne strip mall and park before getting out. As I make my way across the street to the small cafe, I can already see Cam sitting at a table in the window.
While Cafe One isn’t big or flashy, Cam and I stumbled upon it one day after not being able to decide where to eat. I really needed the bathroom, so we pulled over and went inside to check it out. That was the day we found the best kept secret in east L.A. - with the most delicious milkshakes.
I pull back the door, the aroma of chocolate chip cookies in the air and Cam stands as I approach his table. He’s always such a gentleman, if only there were more guys in the world like him. Maybe one that wasn’t gay so that I could have him all to myself, but I suppose for now he’ll do.
“I ordered you a chai latte.” He says, voice gentle, almost like he can read my mood already. “There’s even a slice of cake coming.”
“Is my face that bad?”
“Beautiful as always, but ‘bitch’ is stamped across your forehead.”
And with that remark, I grunt and plummet face first onto the table hoping to shrivel up and hide myself away from the rest of the universe. At least he didn’t actually mention the imprint of my mother’s hand on my cheek… “Ugh!”
