No one cares

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"Hey kitty, we're all probably gonna go to some club tonight so you get the whole night to yourself" Mike informed me while putting on a pair of vans without a single scuff "Just try not to eat all the Cheetos!" he added

I gave him a smirk and answered "No guarantee"

A couple minutes later everyone had left, and by everyone I mean dad, the band, their girlfriends, tour manager, Chelsea (the merch girl) and literally anyone else who could legally down shots in a club. Even though dad had made the lovely decision of telling Cara that I been "practically raped", and she spread it like a high school rumor, they still went out and left me all alone on the bus.

While I did like to get time alone, especially while living on the bus, it was kinda irritating that they went out nearly 3 times a week. I mean seriously, most of them were in their late twenties; how many years of heavy partying could they take?

Sighing, I grabbed a juice box (yes, I made dad buy them for me) and my laptop. A couple months ago when I was still in school, I'd gotten a couple self proclaimed computer nerds to build a software so I could play my xbox games on my laptop.

(A/N: it's probably not possible but if it was, that'd be cool as fuck)

It cost me $300, but the way I thought of it, it was sorta equivalent to buying a whole new xbox. Thankfully, there was also a huge collection of xbox games on the bus which I had access too. Mike, Tony and Jaime had gotten me hooked on video games, and when living on a bus with them and having other bands with twenty-something guys, I'd ended up playing a lot of Grand Theft Auto 5.

However, as Mike said, I had the whole night to myself, so I selected Call of Duty from the cabinet full of movies and games and turned on my laptop. The computer came to life and my screensaver popped up. It was a picture of me, Blake, Hayley and Jesse at some beach sorta by San Francisco. I smiled at the memory and stared at the photo.

Blake had texted me at 7 am one day and told me to get a swim suit and "be ready in half and hour". They'd all showed up at my house in Jesse's new pickup truck (which he was very proud of) with surfboards in the bed. We'd spent hours playing in the ocean and surfing (even though I kinda sucked at it), until it got too dark and we pulled out glowsticks and had a bonfire.

I could easily say it was one of the the best days of my life, because of the normality of it. Just hanging out at the beach with my friends and blasting old Nirvana music from a shitty stereo. Setting aside my xbox controller and game, I opened the picture file on my laptop. I'd made an entire folder of just the average moments in my life. Well, if you describe making March Madness brackets and ending with a pillow fight as normal, then yeah. Mostly it was just me, Blake, Hayley and Jesse; but there were a few pictures of my old friends too. Especially Austin.

I guess I'd sorta "gotten over his death", but it still hurt like hell. I'd only just started wearing my earrings and body jewelry again, and tried my best to keep it off my mind. The many school counselors I'd been sent to throughout the years would probably call it normal and "just part of the grieving process", but fucking hell. I hate it. I want him back. I want to just to be able to call him whenever or drop by randomly from more piercings. I really want the guy who watched out for me and basically saved my heart.

I quickly snapped my laptop shut before I turned into a pile of tears and sighed. It was weird to say, but I honestly just wanted people to pay attention to me. Instead of being Katrina, or kitty; I was always just "Vic's kid" who no one really acknowledged. I was too young to legally go clubbing or whatever with everyone else and who ever didn't go wasn't interested in a conversation with me. Even when people spoke to me it was just out of pity, like asking a little kid what they were drawing and just answering "cool".

It wasn't like dad ignores me or anything, he's just overprotective with a guilty conscience. Same with Cara, but she tries way too hard to be my friend. Mike is too busy with sluts now; him and Frenchi broke up after she caught him making out with a band whore and everybody else just doesn't care.

A lot of people stare at me too. Not that it was unusual or whatever, but even band members who preached loving yourself and not cutting would steal quick glances at my arm when they thought I wasn't looking. Most of it probably has to do with the fact the in Vic Fuentes' daughter, and how people would guess that he'd do everything to get me to not cut. I could probably slit both wrists and he'd only worry because he'd feel bad but didn't actually care.

I quietly stood up (although I was alone) and walked back to the bunks. Pulling open to curtain to Mike's I peeked in and carefully grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter as to not disturb any of the other junk surrounding it. Mike was pretty messy and just threw whatever was in his pockets or hands in his bunk. Thankfully, he also didn't keep very good track of his cigarettes, mostly because he didn't care and had better things to do, so I could easily get away with snitching one or two a day.

Slipping on baggy sweatpants over my shorts and tugging on some converse, I walked out the bus door. The familiar movement of placing a cig between my lips, lighting it and breathing smoke was almost comforting, and (for now) outweighed the effects the tobacco had. I carried out the robotic motions; put the cig on my lips, take a long drag and exhale. Before I realized it, the entire cigarette had turned to ash and all that rested between my two fingers was the filter. Releasing it, I smeared the stub into the pavement with my shoe until it was completely put out, and grabbed another cigarette from the partially flattened box.

"Two cigs are perfectly fine because you're sad and lonely and nobody really cares" I assured myself "And maybe a third wouldn't be so bad either..."

Yet another sigh deepened the melancholy mood that had swallowed me and I bit my lip. It's not fucking fair that nobody cares. It's not fucking fair that I'm always forgotten. And goddammit, I just want to go home. Home as in the one I had in downtown San Diego, before I got myself into this family shit. I suppose, if living on a bus with frequent party-goers could be classified as family.

A single tear slid down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away with my sleeve, hating every aspect of life at the moment and mentally holding a gun to my head. The tiny little voice in my head thought it was to good time to pipe up "At least you're good at hiding everything and faking a smile"

And oh, how I wished it was wrong.

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