StarFall Comics
A Division of Pullemouttayerhat Productions
A Wholly-Owned Subsidiary of StarFall Innovations
Proudly Presents:
Going Solo
#2: On The Streets
cover: A young redheaded girl, huddled behind a dumpster, during a heavy downpour.
My name is Danette Simpson. What few friends I have left call me Dani. I live on the streets; out of necessity, not out of choice. I have nowhere else to go.
I never thought I'd have to resort to this. My parents died when I was five, placing me in an orphanage for most of my life. While there, I was used and manipulated, and nearly turned into a living weapon for some kind of super-secret conspiracy [see relevant issues of City Streets - Ars]. When things got too wierd for my tastes, I left.
After leaving the orphanage, I'd come to Hackensack, New Joisey, to find a cousin of mine. I arrived in time for a funeral. Four of them, in fact. My cousin and her three children all died in their sleep when their apartment caught fire. I suspect foul play, but I can't prove anything.
Three days later, I found myself huddling behind a convenience store dumpster for shelter. That whole night, I debated with myself on going back to the orphanage. But... no, I fled that nightmare for a reason. I was not going back to it.
When morning broke, I started walking, heading away from the city. I was cold, hungry, and miserable. But I was free. I was starting to think that freedom was overrated when a brand new Ford Expedition pulled up to the side of the road, its window lowering.
"Hey, Red. Looking for a ride?"
You know what they say, never accept rides from strangers. They also say desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was desperate. Smiling at him, I got in.
"Where're ya headed?"
"Anywhere but here," I replied.
"Good-looking girl like you shouldn't be out here all alone," he said, leering at me. Shivers ran down my spine with the way he was looking at me. Now, at sixteen, I'm not the most beautiful person in the world, but I'm not ugly either. I knew what he wanted. The question I asked myself was, was I willing to give it to him? "Just how old are you?"
"Sixteen," I replied softly.
"Runaway?"
"Something like that," I muttered, half to myself.
"Want to make a quick hundred dollars?" Damn, he didn't waste any time.
"I don't know," I muttered. My brain was yelling at me not to take him up on the offer. My stomach said otherwise. Hunger beat out pride. "I guess."
He took me to a skanky motel, where he proceded to use my body for his own pleasure. It hurt, but I hid my tears. He left me a half hour later, a hundred dollars richer, and no longer a virgin. At least it gave me shelter for a few hours, and a good hot meal.
He was the first of many. It was hard, at first, but as time went on, its become easier to whore myself out. So easy, it scares me. I've lost track of how many men I've had. I'm not proud of what I do to survive, but it is an honest living. I'm part of the street life. The cops know me; they don't harass me that much. They also don't help me out.
I keep fearing my past will catch up to me. Last week, a side of me I want to keep hidden flared.
One of my clients, a man I'll refer to only as Jon, decided to use me as a punching bag. He told me he liked it rough, he just never mentioned how rough until he punched me. I don't think my nose will ever heal.
Jon was winding up for a second punch when I let him have it. Remember when I mentioned that super-secret conspiracy I'd run away from? Well, they'd made some changes to my body, giving me the ability to toss around infrared radiation. In short, pure heat, kind of like a living microwave oven, only much more powerful. I felt the anger rising in me, and the old conditioning clicked in. I felt no remorse as I fried him from the inside out. Nothing left of him after I finished, but ashes.
Seeing the ashes fall struck a chord in me, knocking me back to my senses. I'd done it. I'd killed. The fact that it was self-defense is a mere excuse; I could have stopped him without killing him.
I fled, taking his wallet with me. I got lucky; bachelor, no kids. Feeling my broken and bloody nose, I could see why. I took his money, dropped the wallet in a dumpster, and ran the other way.
A week later, after the nose stopped hurting, I was back out on streets.
One day, I keep telling myself, I'll break away from this life. I know in my heart that its hopeless. The stories I was told as a young child spoke of a white knight coming to take a girl away from her hard life of toil, making her a princess. The stark reality is much more harsh. If there is a way out of this hell I've found myself in, I have to find it on my own. No one can help me except myself.
I cannot rely on anyone except myself. You want to help me, pay me for my time.
I hate my life.