Kidnapped

It's not that I don't like it. I hate it.

 I'm the type of girl that doesn't drool over boys. I'm the girl that hangs out with them, but wouldn't dare date them. 

My name is Cherri. I am fifteen years old. My full name is Charline Light. People think of me with first glance of a 'scene' girl, or a 'emo chick'. I'm nothing like that. I don't smile as much as other people, but it doesn't mean I'm scene, or emo. I think like is okay. It isn't great. I don't do drugs, but I live in the harshest neighborhood in Indiana. Gangs, drugs, ally fights. If you were to drive down the street, you'd find about nine messed up apartments, that are now crack houses. The police aren't any use. To be honest, I don't think we have a police station. I haven't ever used drugs in my life. I've been in tons of fights though. I've been in them, and started them. I pay close attention in school. I actually like learning, and I want to become a photographer when I'm older, or a writer. I think they both symbolize beauty, and stabilization.

I was born with white hair, and black eyes. I have a pale face, and pale lips. I have a septum piercing as well. I like to use proper gramer, though my friends dissagree. I have only four friends that are boys, none that are girls. I live alone, in an apartment.  My parents abandoned me at age twelve, and before that only taught me with abuse. It was harsh, but it's the past now. I write songs, and nobody knows it, too. Boys try to get me, but I ignore them. I wear hoodies all of the time, and jeans. Not the same one of coarse. I have two guns and one taser, from a police fight.

I don't agree with lots of people, but it doesn't mean I fight with them all.

My friends names' are Mark, Cullen, Hale, and Marty. All boys. They do drugs, but I don't care. I've befriended them for almost nine years now. Each one of them.

   Walking down the street, clutching my switch-blade, with my hands in my pockets. I walk casually, not showing any emotion. In fact, I didn't need to, because it was night, where all of the addicts were around the streets. All I needed to do was remember:

"Now Cherri Girl, I need you to know that we live somewhere bad. I need you to carry this switch-blade. It's a knife, see how it opens? I need you to carry it, and hurt anyone that tries to touch you."

My dad once told me before writing in my arm with it. I still have the scars of the words:

Remember the blade. Remember, and treasure it.