Pizza and Coke

Silence.

It's weird since I hadn't expected it. Or maybe I did. Who knows? Anyways, it's been about two years.

Two years since the car brakes screeched to a stop that was an inch too late. Two years since Dad gave me one last smile, Mum squeezed my hands tight, as if not wanting to let go. Two years since I've been turned into an orphan and spent the next of my days running away, getting caught, and yet eventually running away again.

The adults were stupid to think that I'd one day get tired of the routine and stay still.

I love fairytales. It's a sacred place where I can escape to, where there are no adults, no rules, no scolds for wetting my bed. Maybe that's why I love the fictional world so much. Instead of those nasty things, there are magical unicorns, kind fairies, and a lovely cake or two.

The seasons change in turn, but the dull, monotonous days never seem to end. Miss Weller is a nice teacher. She listens to my hours-long imaginative talks, and never scolds me or orders me around like everyone else does.

Just because I'm tiny, it doesn't mean I'm a lap-dog, born to serve and slave around.

The perpetual sound of car engines rumble in the hot summer day. The sun was beaming brightly, but I can barely notice its radiant warmth or whatever that poetic stuff people do. In fact, right now I'm rather pre-occupied.

One step, two, and on to three and more. My yellow rubber boots clang on the metal ladder, my hands gripping the rungs tightly as I climb upwards as fast as I can. I can feel rocked on my back, and I wince, but there's no time to worry about the pain.

I huff, my breath coming out in short gasps as beads of sweat glisten on my tanned forehead. What was I doing?

Crazy as it may seem, I'm just another abandoned eleven year old fending for her life while big-ass bullies throw rocks and insults at her and she blinks away tears of pain, both emotional and physical.

'Tinkerbell,' I mumble, reaching the top of the ladder, 'Save me.'

The rooftop was bare except for a clothesline pinned with colourful shirts and socks that were nothing but a pastel blur to my eyes, for tears were clouding my vision as I stood as if I had conquered the whole world.

I'm stuck. I hear the same rhythm of the metal clanks as the bullies follow me up. I look around, to my left and to my right, but there isn't any way down except for that rusty ladder, and the big, bad wolves are climbing it.

'Okay,' I said to myself, closing my eyes and breathing hard in the spare minute I had, 'Face it, Charlotte, this is your fate, isn't it? I'm doomed.'

The malicious grin on his face grew a thousand times wider, as his face popped up. 'Well, well, well,' said he, reminding me of the three little pigs, it's just that... Well, I'm alone, unlike the pigs, who were plural.

His gigantic cronies flexed their arms, and I gag at the sight of the muscles popping. My sister used to like hefty men like these, big, strong men. Except for the fact that.. they were not bad, and they had rather charming looks in their eyes which usually made teenage girls' hearts melt.

That kind of charm evidently doesn't work on me.

Though I was outnumbered three to one, and my enemies all hard bulky biceps and well-defined abs, I had been taught to be brave by my mother. Oh, my mother.

Her soft, smooth face, only slightly tainted by the growing wrinkles as she laid on her death-bed, a wet cloth covering the white skin of her forehead. I feel as if I can still feel the gentle touch of her pretty hands, of which she was rather vain.

I snap out of my reverie, the scent of sewers and rat poop filling up my head and causing the comfortable picture away as quickly as the tide going in.

'Isn't she rather cute?' one of his gangsters mumbled. 'I've freaking seven, you hag!' I said, putting both hands on my hips and mustering the scariest look on my face I could, hiding the fact that my heart was racing rather fast and I was trembling emotionally.

Two of his buddies approached me, cracking their knuckles. But, they had such comical looks on their faces, they literally looked like infants trying to push their poo out, and I couldn't hold in a laugh.

'What're you laughing at?' growled Mike, the tallest brat aka the leader.

'Nothing,' I said, quite sober now, 'Just how stupid your faces look.'

And just like that, I got pucnhed.

It hurt, a lot. To be honest, I've never got punched, ever. The closest thing I ever felt was a slap, but that didn't hurt since it was my Dad and he just felt that scolding wasn't enough and the 'slap' was more like a 'be good' pat.

My nose bled, and the blood tasted salty on my tongue, yet I couldn't care less. I used to do karate lessons with a stately, crisp woman on my neighbourhood. Neither of my parents knew, but I was constantly in fear of getting hit down on school.

And so, one day, after hearing that Miss Eva could do karate, I came to her house with my mother's cookies and begged to her to teach me, since I couldn't even throw a punch. I might have even gone down on my knees. I have no idea, my memories have been blurry.

With the determination of oil in water, and the fury of a teased tiger, I packed my fingers into a fist, and shot straight between my enemy's eyes, making him growl in pain and the others circled around me, and at that moment I felt trapped.

Well, that feeling wasn't wrong, either, since I was trapped. 

As it was, I set my wits to work. 

I saw another rooftop that levelled about the same as the one where I was standing on, and I calculated the jump that I needed to make.

Alright, I can do this.

A steadying breath or two as I locked eyes with Mike, or Mister Mike, as he liked to be called. 'You can't catch me,' I taunted, sticking out my tongue as I swerved his hits easily, having a small frame and being quick.

As soon as I saw an opportunity, I delved in between their bulky frames, and hopped over the 2 metre space between this rooftop and someone else's. I land with a thud on the next rooftop, and now I stood up, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and gave Mike and his cronies a big grin.

'You can't catch me now!' I said, face smug and a smirk tugging at my lips.

Well pleased with my victory, I climbed down the metal ladder, that was (thank god) not rusty, and startled a cat to death when I landed on the moist ground with a thud.

I sighed, the feeling of contentment washing away as I realised where and how hungry I was. Rats squeaked as they parted for me, but that wasn't the kind of celebratory party I'd hoped for. Still, at least it was better than losing to a bunch of arrogant uglies.

Just my luck, as I walked out of that dark alleyway and pulled my jacket on tightet, thunder crackled and a scent of storm filled my lungs. 

Soon enough, the clouds parted to pour down a shower, and I would've been drenched if not for a kind man who had a pizza shop. He's probably used to seeing homeless outcasts like me, and invited me into his shop.

After settling me down on one of the booths, he brought me a pepperoni and mozzarella pizza with some coke. God, it was amazing. I probably ate like a starved animal, but at that moment, I really couldn't care less.

The storm subsided, however, to a light drizzle after an hour of harsh winds. I thanked the man heartily, and fussed over the bills. He said not to worry, and even gave me some hot apple turnovers to bring home, wherever that was.

I went back to my orphanage, Little House for Misses, and closed my eyes with a feeling that I was Harry Potter. I really wish Hagrid would knock on my door and bring me to Hogwarts, where I live in an amazing world.

Alas, for fiction, it stays the same. Not real, not happening, just fiction.