Hunger is the bane of my existence. Why do people have to live off of food? Why not just photosynthesize as my good ole’ science teacher talked about? The shakes were setting in, I knew I wouldn’t last long without food, but what little money my step-shit gave me wasn’t even enough to by off the dollar menu of McDonald's. It would’ve been less if mom was sober. Fortunate for me, they were high as kites somewhere, clubbing, partying, or gangbanging. God forbid you give your child enough to eat. Not like I’m complaining or anything… okay, I’m complaining internally, but that’s besides the point. I couldn’t even complain to them about more money. Step-shit would beat my ass or worse while mom threw a bunch of slurs. Calling me “ungrateful brat” or “Bastard.” One of those two. Ungrateful brat doesn’t really describe me, but bastard does. Not in the metaphorical sense, but the literal sense. Daddy died in the Middle East when I was just five. Mom took it way to hard and married the step-shit, Bradley. Mom delved into drugs while the step-shit whored her out to anyone who’d paid a decent price. So basically I’m that boy who is more like a neglected pet than a neglected child. It’s kind of amazing I’ve survived the past seven years of my life with only a bunch of scars, welts, and bruises.

Not that I don’t love my mother. I’d do anything thing for her. She’s all I got in this world, some people have less than that. Sure I’m being neglected, abused, etc., but it could be worse. Could be a girl and used as an underage whore who’s just as messed up as Mom. Could be in a home being made a princess by one of the older boys. Could be dead. I’m not sure if there’s a heaven or hell, but I know I’d definitely go to hell. Which is why I haven’t jumped off a bridge to end it all. I mean, I could be a success story of the man who went from rags to riches. Maybe I could get my mother detoxed, kill… I mean imprison step-shit, and we could live a happy family again. There are so many reasons to live that I can’t just give up. There are so many opportunities in America. Sure I don’t have any money, but there are programs for that. There are options and opportunities, and that’s all I need. Work hard in school, despite the situation, get into a decent college. Graduate with a degree of awesomeness. Not very sure what that degree would be, but it’d definitely be something great. Marry the woman or man of my dreams. Maybe have a kid or two. Succeed at whatever I do spectacularly at. I want to live happily.

At least that’s what I tell myself every day when I get beaten in school, used as a punching bag at home, and starve like an African child every day. In truth, all those things are impossible. Maybe with someone with a somewhat decent family they can get focus hard on their studies and become something. I… I can barely do that. The best I can do is Cs and Bs. I’m too hungry and nauseous from the beatings and the hunger. Most days I can barely focus on my first period. The school lunches are the only thing that saves me… when it’s not hit out of my hand.

I’ll be honest, the only good life I had was when I was a kid. I often have dreams from back then. When mommy would hold me and give me lots of kisses and told me she loved me. When the step-shit didn’t even exist. When daddy came home and played with me. Even thinking about it now brings me to tears. Back then was much simpler, happier, and healthier. I always had a full tummy and always had someone to love me. Oh god, do I miss the words, “I love you.” I barely even remember daddy’s face just his voices and the words. They come to me in dreams. Sometimes he’ll tell me that I should live on. That all I need to do is soldier and fight. He tells me that I’ll do great things. I'm almost inclined to believe him, but dreams are dreams. They have no meaning. Yet, I hold on and fight for a future I’m not even certain will happen. I’m getting sappy from thinking about it and the salty tears only make my stomach rumble more.

“The church?” I asked myself, the church is where they give free food. A blessing, really, but I hate handouts. They make me feel more weak and vulnerable than I already am. Not to mention the place is on the other side of town. They’re the only thing that keeps me fed and clothed. I wish that everything would end up alright if I told the police about my parents. Not like they would listen to a waif like me. They could care less about that and put me in jail for whatever reason. Not to mention what step-shit would do if he found out. I’d rather just survive on my wit.

I limped to the exit the sex, drug, and alcohol stained apartment holding my stomach. Not like it did much use, but it did make me feel a teensy bit better. I almost freaked out when a bunch of police cars pulled up to the lot, sirens blaring. The combination of that and the headache from the lack of food nearly made me fall. I leaned onto the wall for support as I made my way down. Nobody, not even the police were gonna get in the way of me and food. I may be a white trash, coward of a boy, but I do fight when I’m starving. At least that’s what I would do if something big and strong didn’t grapple me and jammed a metal cylinder in the side of my head. God that did NOT make my headache any better.

“Fuck off or the brat gets it.” It was the step-shit. I REALLY hate using his name, he doesn’t deserve to be called by his name. My eyes went to the cops. The officer looked scruffy and old, while his partner looked to be only a rookie. Great, a rookie in a hostage situation. The poor guy looked to be freak, holding a shaking gun. Does NOT make me feel good about this.

The scruffy cop glared down me, well the step-shit, but it felt like he was looking at me. As though there’s something he wants me to know without words, “Let the kid go, we’ll make this easier on you.”

“Bullshit, now fuck off.” I could hear the revolver cock. Shit, did I ever mention that I REALLY hate the step-shit?
My body felt limp in his grasp, barely enough energy to move. I took a deep breath and gave the cop a little smile and nod. His face was pretty confused and the rookie looked like he was gonna shit and piss himself. With all my strength left I grabbed the barrel and shoved it as hard as I could. Making step-shit jerk the trigger, missing me by a hair… Not like that matters, because my ears are ringing and my head feels like superman punched it. Then the cop and the rookie shot while the step-shit was both surprised and shocked.

Remember when I said the Rookie’s hands were shaking? Yeah, He got me a bit in the collarbone. I could’ve dodged… I think, I mean I definitely had the movement too, but I’m so starving I can’t stand it. Starving would be the appropriate word for the situation. Hungry is when you haven’t eaten for a bit. Starving is when you haven’t eaten for more than a day. I correct myself even though I’m probably gonna die from the lack of food. Not like that bothers me. Dying sounds like a nice way out. I’ll get to be with daddy and I’ll have a full tummy always and forever.

Hey, thanks for reading. I know I haven't posted any stories on here for a while. I was thinking of making this into a much longer story when I found myself unable to continue it without making it boring and shitty. I'm trying something new out so I hope you'll give me some of your thoughts in the comments below. Now I sound like a youtuber. Next thing I'll type is please give me a like and subscribe... I just did FUCK. Anyways I hope you all have a beautiful day, night, evening, whatever time it is in your area.