𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: Delayed Mondays

Well he's not subtle at all, I thought. He really wasn't, because as I continued scrolling, he leaned in closer.
At one point, I groaned with disgust and moved down a seat. He did the exact same thing as I did. So, I was stuck with him looking over my shoulder until we came to a stop.

That wouldn't have been as bad as it was, if only this man had taken a bath regularly. You can tell though that he didn't give two shits about how he smelled.
He had a beer belly growing, his clothes looking tight upon him. His shirt was stained with something yellow and brown, and it had text on it that said something about being too lazy to do his laundry. Apparently he was too lazy to shower every once in a while too.

At least when it came down to me, I kept a good as possible hygiene. Showering once every two days, putting on deodorant and perfume, making sure I smell good at all times. My only problem is my hair. I've always had problems with it. It's always getting knotty, even when I brushed all the rats out that morning.
They always come back.

My aunt Bessie told me we could go get me a haircut sometime soon at her new gig at the salon. I was more than happy and willing to go, but that was months ago. I don't think she remembers that conversation.
I guess I shouldn't blame her— she's a single mom with seven kids, eight now that she has me— yet I'm still bitter. I've been bitter towards her since I moved into her home. At the time it was a home.
And at the time, Uncle John was there. Sick, but there.

I liked him a little better than her, was even able to forgive him for not helping me get out of the foster care system sooner at the end of the road. But not Bessie. I am still angry at her.
She tries too hard to make it right: letting me know I can talk about the death of my parents, or how bad my previous foster homes were, or how much abuse that was inflicted on me. She tries to get me to be open, but you can't open brick walls.
That's not how it works.

The subway hissed to a stop. Putting away my phone and standing up made the stinky-ass man immediately go. Once he was gone, I let out a breath of relief I didn't know I was holding.
I waited for the crowd to die down, as crowds trigger my panic attacks the most— these panic attacks I suffer from sometimes make me hyperventilate and twitch out in public, and so to some I'm known as the Crazy girl. Others my age don't even know I exist. I prefer to be invisible than taunted. School drama and rumors have traumatized me just as much as the adults who fostered me did.

Once the crowd was down to a minimum, I rushed out, heading directly to the stairs and out into the morning sun. The streets were packed with busy people left and right, traffic buzzing and sirens blaring. The usual sounds of a city.
Continuing down the street, I made it to the Main Street. Much to my dismay, a huge crowd of people awaited me, larger than the one at the subway.

A groan left my lips as I lifted my hood up and melted into the clutter. Soon it was safe to walk, and we crossed the crosswalk. I was so close to the other side, so close with parting with the cluster. Then someone bumped me, I don't know who— if it was someone from school or not— but they made it to where I was trampled over.

When the crowd crossed the street, I slowly stood, my knees feeling weak and my body bruised. Nothing was broken, the pain was durable, but it still ached nonetheless.
The moment I began making my way to the sidewalk, a shiny red truck slowly pulled up.
My glare snapped to them, full of rage, especially when they honked at me.

"Get out of the road!" They yelled at me, in a smug tone that made me want to sneak into their home and smother them with their own fucking pillows, giving in to the red in my vision.
Once again, I tried to walk, to which the honked at me again. This time, their laughter was heard.