The Wrong Way (Chapter 1)

This is an autobiographical novel. Though the events herein mirror some events in the author’s own life, fictional embellishment may be used at any time. All names of family, friends, acquaintances, and other supporting cast have been changed to protect privacy. All poetry and journal excerpts included are the author’s original work and are protected by copyright. 

Why do you love me? Why do you care?
I'm nothing important, so why stop & stare?
You all call me beautiful, you all say I'm smart,
So why play your games and tear me apart?
Why do you need me? Why am I here?
Why try to protect me, when there's nothing to fear?
Why do you mock me? Why play pretend?
I know you don't listen, will this ever end?
Why do you want me? Why are you nice?
I'll just shut you out, my heart's cold as ice.
Why am I living? Why can't I die?
I want you to suffer if I'm still alive.
Why do I do this? Why play this game?
Everything's pointless, all moves end the same.
So why do you hate me, then turn back & smile?
You will get yours, which makes this worthwhile.

--Anni Shaw, 2002

~1~

A convenience store clerk, tired from a long graveyard shift, prepared to clean the bathrooms and go home for the night. She bent down to pick up the usual trash and toilet paper from the floor, and noticed a foot poking out from under one of the stall doors. There were often homeless squatting in the bathrooms (hence the majority of the filth), so at first the clerk was not all that concerned. After all, this wasn’t exactly the greatest of neighborhoods.

She approached the stall, and tapped on the door. “Wake-up call! The next attendant will be here soon, and she’s not nearly as friendly as I am!”

No response. The clerk looked back down at the foot, and quickly did a double-take. The shoe was a woman’s shoe, patent leather, roughly a size nine. A tattoo bearing the initials “L.J.W.” was on the woman’s ankle.

At this point, the normally apathetic clerk grew alarmed. This area was no place for an unattended (or unarmed) woman, much less one who could afford shoes that nice. The awkward angle of the foot could only mean bad news.

With minimal effort, the clerk forced open the stall door. She looked down and saw a girl that once might have been described as beautiful. Now, with the matted black hair in her face and the syringe still protruding from her left arm, this scantily clad corpse could only be described as a shell, one hollowed out years before her actual demise.

As the clerk reached for her phone to dial 911, she had only one thought about this woman, who could have been someone’s mother, someone’s wife. How does anyone’s life get to this point?