[…continued]

I hadn’t thought Amy or Jason had even been paying attention, but suddenly he leaned over towards the rest of us and said, “Hide it, guys!”

Jez made a face at him like he was totally crazy. “Fucking…put it in your shirt, or your pockets!” he hissed.

Bat twigged, and took a can and stuffed it into a pocket in his cargos. Those pockets are huge, and honestly it didn’t even look like there was anything in it. Jason took one and buried it in the pocket of his hoodie; Jez took the third one and actually shoved it under her skirt. She kind of squealed; “Fuck, that’s cold!”

And all that was left was mine, and I was drinking it, and the cops knew it. My heart was racing, and I looked around, and saw the trash can ten feet away. I stood – the cops were almost there – and started walking towards the can. I actually took another swig, right in front of them – I can’t believe I actually did that – but I tried to hold it really tight in my hand. The cops had stopped by the others, and I tossed the beer, still half full, into […]

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My parents are divorced, and that’s probably all you need to know about me. They split when I was seven, and it kind of fucked me up. I never thought it was all my fault like everyone wants to believe – they both talked to me a lot about it. It was my dad’s fault, and we all know it. My feelings were a lot more complicated, and I guess I still haven’t got it all worked out.

My dad’s an alcoholic. I guess I didn’t really know what that meant when I was seven. He just drank a lot of beer, which is what I thought all dads were supposed to do. Maybe he didn’t know what it meant, either. Either way, what I do remember is that he and mom fought a lot, and she’d scream at him just as much as he did. He never beat her – he never laid a hand on either of us – but I always got scared when they fought, and I’d hide in my room and cry.

I never felt like it was my fault, but I did feel guilty. When dad took a day off work and we hung out, we had […]

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It is a dark city on such a late summer evening. The sun is blood over the rooftops, and the girl in the park is sitting in the last rays passing between the old brick buildings.

It is a small park, of course; not much more than a few benches and a couple of old trees, but it is a refuge in a town that is huge, and busy. The trees haven’t begun to turn yet, and the grass and paths are golden in the spaces between their leaves. There are people, and they pass through, but they are few, and don’t spare the girl a glance.

The girl is sixteen; looks fourteen. The cigarette hangs in her hand, ash burned back almost to her fingertips. Black hood over her head and black jeans to her boots, she’s like a darker shadow in the shade of the trees. A lock of crimson hangs forward, and the small silver nose ring glints a little. Under the hoodie is a lace top, black also, and at her breast is a silver pendant: a silver crucifix entwined with snakes. A choker holds a black glass heart with a skull inside to her throat. […]

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