A new life

Another day? No. But I'm glad: I'm tired of Juvie. What's Juvie? Juvie. As in juvenile detention centre. What I'm in for? I was considered a troubled child.

It started with bullying. At school. I was- still am- malnourished. Really skinny. And, well, bruised. Arms, legs, covered in purple and yellow bruises. No one cared. CPS never came. No teacher noticed, or rather, acted like they didn't notice. After months of bullying and being isolated from my high school classmates, and after being bullied yet again by Christine, a spoiled blonde girl with pink clothes, I snapped. Next thing I know, my fists are bloody, I'm panting, every breath burning my troat. Christine is crying and whimpering on the floor hysterically, her face a bloody mess. Two people grab me. I was in a haze, don't remember much. What I do remember, is that Mr Williams, the chubby man with the thick black mustache got me expelled.And Christie's parents made sure I would get in Juvie. That was three years ago. But hey, at least I missed a beating from my step-father that day, because they immediately took me to juvie.

Now, I'm 18. Been in Juvie for 3 years. And honestly, it's has far better than my home. Before juvie, my mom was always working and my deadbeat step-father was looking after me. And by looking after me, I mean sleeping all day, and beating me for no reason at all. Sometimes, when he was deep asleep, I opened the fridge to get food. And my dad? I don't know. Never met him. My mom never said anything, only that I looked like him. Sometimes I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have become what I am today. I could have been... normal. But I wasn't given the chance to, was I?

Today, I'm getting out. And it's a little scary. My best days of my life was in that place... I made friends. God, I felt safe. But nothing lasts forever. I turn to look at my reflection on glass door of the exit. My clothes are too small for me. Worn blue hoodie with sleeves too short, reaching mid arm, jeans a little torn at the edges and full of bleach stains. My hair is messy, eyes tired. I look like a freaking raccoon. But it doesn't matter. At least I'm free. I only have a purple backpack in which I got a few clothes. Oh, and a paper with dear old daddy's address. Not my step-father's. My actual dad's address.

Now, I was very very skeptical about it. Looking for a man? Even if he is my biological father. Men are usually creepy or aggressive. I didn't like the idea. But I had nowhere to go. I haven't finished school, haven't attended a year too. And even if I found a job, no one takes juvie teens to work for them. So, it was either my father whom I never knew, or foster care. I don't open up to people easily, and some foster parents are terrible, - some teens from juvie agreed too, some of them have been in foster care- I can't trust them. Can I trust my father? Well... At least he'll be one person. They told me he lives alone.

With my backpack on, map in hand (I didn't have a phone before Juvie, so not now either), I try to find my way through New Jersey to my father's workplace. He has a library. That's interesting. I love books, read a lot all my life. I just hope he's good too. No matter how much I adore books, no harm or disrespect will be toleratable by me. With these thoughts, I find myself just outside the bookshop. Big, wooden building, black roof. The dark building has one long oval stained glass window with rose details on it. It's beautiful and dark. I take a deep breath I push open the door, the little bell ringing, signalling my entrance.

A middle aged man with glasses turns towards her, his hands busy with stocking up books. The books are everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. The air smells like coffee. I look awkward. I can't say anything. No 'Hey, dad', or "Hi, I'm your daughter'. Instead... 'Hi... Are you Mr Winters?". The man, my father, smiles warmly. "In the flesh" he says with a little laugh. "What can I do for you, miss?". I hesitate, opening my mouth and... "Do you happen to look for an assistant?" I ask shyly, my heart beating in my chest as I brace for rejection.