SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL (Something Like Normal #1)

One

“Good morning, miss. Where to?” singsongs the clerk.

Who the hell is so chipper at three o’clock in the morning?

“Anywhere but here,” I mumble to myself while rummaging blindly through my backpack, looking for my wallet.

My hand passes over my flick knife, my Colt, and finally, my wallet. The quicker I get this over with, the quicker I can blow this town.

“Where can I go with this?” I ask, sliding my money toward her. The money I stole from my dad’s hidden stash as he lay unconscious and bleeding on the basement floor.

The woman counts my cash while I nervously take in my surroundings, afraid I have been followed.

This Greyhound bus depot is like all the others. It is artificially lit, and no matter how many coats of paint are applied, the bright colors that coat the walls make it look outdated and lifeless.

But it’s the smell that gives me the creeps.

It smells of desperation.

“Any preferences to where you want to go?”

“Somewhere boring and quiet. Someplace I would blend in.”

Her hazel eyes widen, making it more than obvious she’s taking in my not-so-inconspicuous appearance.

My straight black hair is long, and I’ve worn it this way for as long as I can remember. However, one day I decided to highlight my thick tresses with bright red, hoping to experience a kaleidoscope of jovial emotion with the change. I liked the color, but sadly, it failed to modify my miserable existence.

My blue eyes are always dressed up with the blackest mascara, and you’ll never see my upper lids lined with anything other than dark kohl, giving me a—what did Cosmopolitan call it again? That’s right—seductive cat eyes. Seriously, who comes up with this s**t?

As a kid, my nickname was Cindy, thanks to the small beauty spot above my lip. I’ve been told it’s my best feature. But growing up in my world, it was best not to have any “best features” and just fade into the background.

I have a small silver hoop in my nose and two piercings in both my ears. All piercings, even my tragus, was of course done by me. The pain was a reminder that I was alive.

What wasn’t done by me is the moon tattoo I have inked on my inner left wrist. This ink holds much symbolism, and I’ve never regretted the day I got it at age fifteen. The horse tattoo in the middle of my back is something else I hold close to my heart. I dream of being wild and free because it’s something I’ll never be.

“You could probably get to South Boston, Virginia, on this. Scheduled arrival is in two days, thirteen hours, and fifty minutes,” she says, tapping away on the computer keys.

I have no idea what they do in South Boston, and honestly, I don’t care. All I know is that it’s a small town in Halifax County, and it sounds perfect.

“Sure, that’s fine. As long as it leaves tonight.”

“You mean this morning?” she chirps with a smile.

I eye the ballpoint sitting in its perfect little pen holder on the counter near me and contemplate jamming the writing implement into my ears, as the pain is more appealing than having to listen to this woman for one more second.

She must construe my expression for someone who gives a flying f**k.

“You know, ’cause it’s three a.m. and all, so technically, it’s morning.”

I drum my black-painted fingernails on the countertop, impatiently waiting for her to stop talking and give me my ticket so I can get the hell away from her.

Of course, she doesn’t get it, and when I raise an unimpressed eyebrow at her, she continues staring and smiling, waiting for me to remark on her lame-ass observation.

I don’t.

“Ticket,” I remind her.

“Oh right, of course, sorry,” she stammers as she nervously taps away at the keyboard.

Glancing around the small terminal again, I see two other people waiting for a ride, and I wonder if they’re escaping, just like me.

A little girl holds a ragged pink teddy. She clutches her mother’s arm, her large eyes flighty and frightened as she studies her surroundings. When the frayed teddy slips from her fingers, she reaches for it quickly, as it, no doubt, is her security blanket and savior.

Judging by the shiner her mother currently sports, these two are definitely like me.

They’re runners.

The young girl notices me looking at her and shyly hides her face against her mother’s side.

I turn away quickly, not wanting to bother the kid because I see myself in her. I, too, was once that scared little youngster. But I was forced to grow the f**k up because, in my world, being scared fated you to become a victim.

Something I refuse to be ever again.

“Miss Cassidy?”

“What?” I snap, lost in my thoughts.

“Your bus leaves in ten minutes.” She smiles uncomfortably as she finally hands me my freedom.

“Super,” I reply, snatching the ticket and shoving it into the back pocket of my denim shorts.

“Enjoy your ride with…”

Turning away before she finishes her sentence might seem a little rude, but I have given her enough of my time, and my time is finally mine. And I am not a people person.

I plop down onto the hard plastic green seat and slouch low, crossing my feet at the ankles as my eyes drift over my plain attire. My black Converse high-tops have seen better days, but I don’t have the heart to throw them away since I’ve had them for years.

I stand at five-foot-three and have always been underweight. I can thank my father for my gaunt frame because eating nutritiously in my household was unheard of, so after a while, you just forgot you needed food to survive. But in my line of “work,” you had to be tough, so I worked out. Yes, I may be skinny, but I can kick the ass of a two-hundred-pound creep any day. Trust me, I speak from experience.

I’ve been pale all my life, and I know when contrasted with my black hair and blue eyes, I sometimes resemble the living dead. But if you’re considered a freak, no one seems to f**k with you and leaves you the hell alone. And that’s how I like it.

I frown as I peer down at the bag sitting at my feet, realizing I didn’t have much to pack. My whole life fits inside this tiny, tattered backpack—my whole life, which I packed in haste.

But that doesn’t matter. When I get to South Boston, I will blend in because I want to be like everybody else. I want to be normal.

But I know I won’t ever be normal, so I’ll settle for something like normal.

The singsong voice jolts me out of my head, but thankfully, this time around, I am semi-happy to hear it since it’s announcing my ride has finally arrived.

Looking out the smudged window, I huff a deep breath of relief when my bus pulls into the lot.

Freedom.

All but springing out of my seat, I push open the double glass doors, anxious to make Los Angeles a distant memory.

Los Angeles, population three million eight hundred thousand, and growing by the second, is now minus two. I used to call a little house in the suburbs my home, but now, now it’s my prison, filled with bitter memories and broken dreams.

Who am I kidding? It was never my home.

However, I used to feel safe there. Well, that was until my mom left me in the care of my father when I was three. And honestly, if I had a choice, I’d rather be alone.

Searching through my backpack, I find my black sweater and pull it on quickly as I suddenly have a chill. But this is nothing new—thinking about my father always has my blood running cold. Slinking into the hood, I rearrange the sides so my face is practically hidden underneath it.

I like anonymity. This is my new life now.

I am no one.

“Miss?”

My head snaps up, and the chubby bus driver, with a friendly face and warm smile, extends his hand to me.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Your bag.” He smiles, looking down at it.

I snatch it up from where I dropped it and clutch it closer to my chest, squeezing it for dear life.

When I don’t budge, he clarifies, “Can I take it for you?”

“Can I keep it on board with me?” I ask, not wanting to part with it.

“Of course, you can. Welcome aboard.”

Giving him a polite nod, I make my way over to the bus. However, before I ascend the first step, I look up at it with childlike eyes. I feel hope and optimism, something I haven’t felt in a very long time. And that’s because my nineteen-year-old eyes have seen things a person my age should never be exposed to.

Actually, regardless of age, no one should be subjected to the s**t I’ve seen.

But that’s in the past. The past I shot down—literally.

As I take my first step toward freedom, I feel my mouth tip up into a foreign gesture. One I haven’t been familiar with in a long time.

I smile.

Well, here’s to new beginnings.

’Cause the past f*****g sucked.