Vivian

Vivian

 

                If my dad comes home drunk again, I swear I’m going to kill him. Okay, maybe not kill, but hurt. Definitely hurt. Or maiming sounds good. Yeah, if he comes home drunk again, I am going to maim him. He always complains about how we have no money, and then when he gets his paycheck, he goes and blows it all on bars and cheap women. It’s no wonder mom left him. Too bad she left him for a guy that was just like him.

                But doesn’t he realize that I’m trying to get a thing called an “education” so that I don’t end up like him and so I’ll have something called “money.” But he doesn’t get that. All he understands is that he’s got money, and the alcohol and women in this neighborhood are cheap. I can’t wait till I’m old enough to leave this rat hole. Well, I actually am, I’m eighteen. But I can’t leave because my dad can’t take care of himself. He’d end up out on the streets without a penny to his name. Despite what he says, it’s actually my paycheck that pays the rent and for the food and for the electricity and water and so on and so forth.

                At school, I’m the girl everyone avoids because I’m poor and don’t come from the same background as the snooty spoiled brats that go to my prep school. The only reason I can even go to this over-priced private school is because I have a scholarship that goes away as soon as one of my grades drops below an “A.” But oh well, here’s to another long day at a name-brand uniform prison.

The End

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