PREVIEW: No Turning Back
With no place to go or stay, Ricki commences her quest to make her escape.
Somewhere in mid-2017 right after I graduated from St. Francis College, I wrote and published my debut novel, No Turning Back.
No Turning Back contains several powerful and convoluted themes. It may also contain trigger warnings that I should let my audience be aware about.
The main themes are:
Survival and Resilience: The main character becomes a homeless runaway youth starting from the beginning. During her homeless experience, she navigates her struggles without food and shelter and very limited cash. She finds improvised, multitudinous ways to survive on the streets.
Domestic Abuse and Trauma: The last effects of an abusive home environment and the difficult decision to leave and never return to where she came from.
Sexual Violence and Recovery: The main character deals with the aftermath of a brutal sexual assault and searching for her paths of recovery.
Coming of Age: Growing up quickly when facing adult challenges at only sixteen years old.
Finding Help and Support Systems: The main character learns to accept assistance and learning to rely on others after coping with trauma.
Life-Changing Choices: Making convoluted choices that can be life-altering without having to go back to the past and turn the page.
No Turning Back tackles these heavy subjects with mental health and escapism. The conquering of teen homelessness creates an ideal story that focuses on one of today’s societal issues that is still ubiquitous around the world.
This debut novel of mines would bring awareness to what has been happening around not only in American, but also many other countries worldwide.
It would change my audience’s perspectives on helping those who are in need, whether of poor or without shelter of any sorts.
It will alter ways to turn greed into charity in order to change the world to prevent this type of tragedy from happening ever again in the future.
Preview
Chapter 1: Leaving
I don’t even know where my destination is going to be. But I can’t stay at home anymore. I just can’t.
A few years ago, my mother passed away and my father married this bitch, Lori Diaz. He forced me to call her my new “stepmom” but that’s never going to happen and it never will. Why?
Because Lori is an abusive piece of shit.
Every night and day ever since my dad married her, Lori has been abusing me, both physically and emotionally, over every little thing for no reason. I don’t even know what her fucking problem is. She yells at me for not doing what she told me to do and if I “give her the attitude,” she would beat me mercilessly until I’m on the floor, crying in agony. And whenever my dad is not around, Lori would glare at me, call me “bitch” over and over again, and then she would go too far into saying “I am nothing but a piece of shit lying on the floor who will have nothing to live for in the future.”
The worst part—Lori threatened me several times that if I tell Daddy about what happened to me—all covered with bruises and a black eye—she would still beat me more if I snitch on her. She forced me to say to him that “I’m so clumsy and I keep falling down the stairs.” That’s not even true! And with that, Lori would lie to him that she has never laid a hand on me… and he believed her!
I seriously can’t take this. I hate that stepmom of mines. I want to leave home.
But the problem is that I’m only sixteen years old. I cannot live alone by myself due to being a minor. I can’t even find a job myself or continue my education. What someone would want to hire a small beat-up Asian girl that looked like she was living on the dirt? And I dropped out of high school because I can’t focus properly on my courses and I’m too scared to admit any of my friends, teachers, and the school counselors about what I’m going through. If any of them find out, Lori would hurt me more. They might arrest her—I hope so—but they may also arrest my father for child negligence (which he did). If both of them ended up in jail for who knows how long, I might end up in foster care.
There’s no way I’m going to any foster home. There’s no way I’m temporary—or permanently, whichever comes first—staying in a home with a bunch of foster kids whom I don’t even know. Every one of them would be terrible strangers to me. And what if they send me under custody of more abusive foster parents? What if they’re child molesters?
This is something I do not want to happen, ever.
Right now, I’m in the bathroom leaning my front body against the dirty sink and staring straight at the mirror all covered with grime. My reflection is horrendous. There are dark circles underneath my eyes and countless bruises on my face from where Lori had beaten me in the past. My black hair is severely unkempt; my severe depression intervened with me from washing myself properly. I sob at myself. I look so horrible, I want to die.
“Please, let it end. Let it end.” I silently weep those words, almost into a prayer. I repeat is over and over again. “Please, let it end. Let it end.” My voice breaks throughout the prayer.
Out of impetuousness, I grab a pair of metal scissors sitting on the corner of the sink. Then, out of both anger and sadness, I grab a lock of my hair, nearly tugging them from my scalp, and then I open the scissors over them. I snip them and then I repeat with the rest of my hair, one strand at a time. I listen to the sound of scissors snipping and I watch the locks of my hair raining down inside the sink. I keep on going and going until there is nothing left.
When I’m done, I drop the scissors on the floor, causing a loud clank sound against the linoleum. I stare at my reflection again. With more tears pouring down my hysterical eyes, I gaze at my new hair. It went from my waists to up to my chin; it’s now in some kind of an edgy pixie cut. I’ve learned somewhere that many girls, who were raped, brutally beaten, or just going through a manic phase, cut their hair like this as a way to cut off their horrid memories and then move on to their new change.
I still don’t feel any changes yet, but hopefully, in time, the past will go away and I can move on.
Getting the audacity I have, I quickly run into my disgusting messy room before Dad gets back from work and Lori returns home from wherever she is. I open the closet, take out my backpack and start shoving my clothes and everything else I needed to carry for my runaway. When the pack is full, I zip them shut, struggling to close it due to its fullness. I put on a white T-shirt, a black hoodie, a pair of blue torn jeans and then my white sneakers. I strap my backpack over my back and I leave my room.
Right before I leave the house, I sneak into Dad’s and Lori’s (previously my late mom’s) room. I go to the vanity; sitting on top of it is Lori’s hinged wooden box where she keeps all her money and several drugs she’s been hiding from us. I open it. I disregard the pills, heroin, and syringes inside and just take a handful of money that she probably made from selling them. Lori has over hundreds of dollars in there. Without even counting them, I just take as much twenties and singles as I can and then stuff them into my pockets.
Now, with the clothes and necessities on my back and hopefully some enough cash to keep me alive, I run out of the bedroom. I run through the second-floor corridor, down the stairs and then to the front door.
Just when I was about to touch the doorknob, the door is already being unlocked by somebody from the outside. The door nearly hit my face when it opens and there she stood.
“Where do you think you’re going?!” Lori scolds at me. I stood silent, trying to fight off the upcoming fear.
“It’s none of your fucking business, Lori!” I snarl at her. I can still feel the fear. “I don’t need to tell you where I’m going!” I try to run pass through her, but she stops me, sending me back inside with so much force.
“Don’t you talk back to me like that! That is not how you treat your mother! What would your father think about this?”
“You’re not my mother! What kind of stepmother would beat me every single day and then lie to my dad? It’s your fault that I’m going through hell for all of these years!” I push her back and she retaliates again.
Our battle begins when Lori drops her bag and then she pushes me hard until I fall back on the hardwood floor. She begins to tackle me and then punch me. Her hits and blows are so hard, I feel like that not only she’s bruising me, she’s breaking my bones. My screams and cries are amid her screams full of harsh profanity.
“You little bitch!” Lori shrieks at the top of her lungs.
Using all the strength I have, I get up and then push her out of the way. I shove her against the wall, causing the picture frames to clatter before they detach themselves from their nails and fall to the floor. The sounds of the frames breaking apart and its glass shattering can be heard. When she gets down with her back still leaning against the wall, Lori screams some more when I begin to impulsively hit her for retaliation.
Before I lose my energy, I get up from her and face back to run to the opened front door. I can feel Lori crawling up to me at her own pace, “Get back here!” She grabs my ankle.
She pulls back, trying to get me to fall back on the floor again. Although, I’m lucky enough to kick her back—on the face—before I hit my face down. She shrieks again when I kicked her, giving me enough time to run out before she catches me. Lori sounds like she’s in pain, but I don’t even care about that anymore. She got what she deserved.
I finally made it to the doorway. I turn back to Lori, her messy, unkempt dirty blonde hair covering her face, for a mere moment to take one last look of her ugliness. I cry out to her, with full anger and distress, “And just so you know, I’m leaving home! Tell Dad to don’t bother looking for me because I’d rather die on the street than to be found and be neglected and beaten some more!” I wipe the tears out of my eyes and then turn back around.
I grab the door and slam it shut, without even saying goodbye to her. I’m not sure if what I said was true about me wanting to die on the street.
I ran down the concrete walkway to the sidewalk. After only a few feet away, the door opens again.
“Good riddance to you, you little piece of shit!” Lori shouts at me with mutual anger. I still didn’t look back at her and I’m trying to ignore her. “I hope you die!” She slams the door shut.
I heard everything she said. Why would an adult, like her, call a child like that?
I don’t even care anymore. I just want to find a place to stay for a while. I just want to be away from Dad and Lori.
I still don’t know where I’m going albeit I hope to find away. Just as long as I don’t have to go back.
Even though my destination is still unknown, this is where my journey begins.
Chapter 2: Calling
It’s autumn right here in New York and the weather is getting a little cold. The sky is all cloudy with little openings for the sun to shoot its rays, though not warm and sunny enough. The air has a very dampening scent from the rain last night. The concrete ground and fallen leaves are moist. I like the scent of wet leaves flowing in my air, but at the same time, it causes me allergies.
I sniff and sneeze when breathing the damp autumn air. I wipe my face and nose with the back of my hoodie’s sleeve. I’m not sure if it’s tears from my allergies—or my last battle with Lori.
Time passes by; it’s been two hours since I left home. I must’ve walked miles from my former house already.
I’m now in a suburban area. I’m familiar with this place because this is where I used to hang out with my friends. Nostalgia came up to my mind when I started thinking about my friends. The way we hang out at Starbucks before, after and in between classes, before I became a high school dropout, and I always ordered a vanilla latte; we chat and chat, laughter filling up the coffee shop. We even go from store to store and shop around a little for snacks, our favorite desserts, and other things.
The memory made me smile. However, my smile is evanescent. Sadness intervenes again. The truth is I stopped hanging out with them ever since Lori came into the picture. I had no audacity to tell them about her because—you know. Lori even isolated me from my friends. Because of her, I couldn’t be around with them anymore. I can’t show up to them with bruises and cuts on my skin and my bones nearly broken from her abuse.
I honestly don’t remember when the last time I saw them. It was such a long time for me. Lori must’ve blown away my memories. I stopped going to their houses and I, out of impetuous choice, removed all of their contacts from my phone, all without their knowledge. Speaking of which, I do have my cell phone with me, but I don’t know where I should recharge it. The battery is low and I can’t find an available outlet somewhere in the neighborhood.
There are payphones in this area, but who uses them anymore? Maybe I should give one a try.
I walk to the nearest convenience store with one payphone just standing outside of its front entrance. Before I try to make a call, I enter the store. The bell rings when I step through the door. The inside is full of cheap snacks and drinks, the walls are in an ugly shade of blue-gray and the linoleum floors are covered with dirt from the outside. I walk to the refrigerator, opened it and took out a bottle of soda before closing it. Then, I grab a pack of mini cakes from one of its shelves.
I pay for them and I ask the cashier behind the counter for a change. I was given quarters after handing in the bill. Plus, some couple extra quarters from the change I got back for paying my snack. That’s six quarters in total. I exit the store and that annoying bell rings.
I head to the payphone. It costs twenty-five cents per call. I pull my backpack off one side for a moment so I can reach for something. I remember carrying a small address book with me, all filled with phone numbers just in case. I took it out and open it, flipping through the pages.
The first number that came up to me is Stevie Regan, my best friend. I took the phone off the receiver and insert a quarter. The droning sound is heard. I then dial Stevie’s number. I hear the other end ring a few times.
“Hello?” Stevie answers. “Who’s this?”
“Stevie?” I say, though very weakly and my voice breaking. It’s been a long time. Either my voice is persistent with its sadness or that I’m too nervous to speak to her. “Stevie, it’s me. Ricki.”
“Ricki? Ricki, as in…?” Stevie sounded surprise when she heard me.
“Yes,” I reply. She became silent.
“So, you decided to talk to me now?” I can’t even tell if she’s mad at me for leaving her without letting her know It’s weird because she’s always so quiet and shy. “The way you left me and everyone else without saying a word was pretty rude. I thought it was a sign that you didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. That was wrong.” Stevie is getting pissed off now. “If you didn’t want to be with me anymore, all you have to do is say so. You don’t have to keep it to yourself. But leaving me and the girls all alone and ignoring us while saying nothing was just plain awful.”
Stevie is starting to make me feel guilty now. I try to explain, but her exclamation is causing me more pain. Instead of explaining it, I cry out, “Stevie, I’m sorry, okay?”
“That doesn’t sound like you are. Do you even know how disheartened we were when you left us?” More guilt.
I stammer a little before changing the subject. I try to hold back my sob, “Please, just listen to me, Stevie. There’s something I need to tell you.”
She sighs, sounding exasperated. “What?”
I take a deep breath, “It’s complicated.” I paused. “I was wondering if—even though you’re mad at me—if I can stay over at your place for a while.” She’s silent for a second.
“Why?”
“I can’t tell, but—”
“Sorry,” Stevie cuts me off. “I can’t let you. Bye.”
“Stevie, wait—” She hangs up on me. The dial tone appears.
I hang the phone back on the receiver. I can’t believe my best friend—my ex-best friend—became mad at me like this just for leaving her. I try to wash the thoughts of her away as I take my book out again and go through the phone numbers.
There’s another one: Lizzie Grey. I take the phone back, inserted another quarter and dial Lizzie’s number.
The other end rings and Lizzie answers, “Hello?”
“Lizzie?” I remark, still feeling meek. “It’s Ricki. Ricki Shi.” She silent. “Do you remember me?”
Lizzie is still silent until she finally remarks. “Oh, it’s you.”
Our talk is the same I just had with Stevie. Then, I ask her, “Is it okay if I stay over at your place?” The answer…
“Sorry, Ricki. But you’re not welcome here.” She hangs up. The dial tone sounds.
I repeat the whole thing I dial another number.
“Valerie?” Valerie Garcia answers and then she said that I can’t stay at her place. She hung up on me.
Another number.
“Kyrie?” Kyrie Lee rejected me as well. She hung up on me.
Then another.
“Simone?” Simone Carmichael says no before hanging up. This is getting more frustrating.
I’m down to my last quarter. I insert it into the slot. Finally, I dial one last number. The other end rings until…
“Yeah?”
“Madison?” I don’t even know what I was thinking about calling someone I like and hate at the same time. Madison Martinez was more of a frenemy to me.
“Ricki Shi?” Madison sounded typically rude. She’s my only hope despite that we only hate each other at occasional times.
“Y-yes,” with my voice breaking, I ask her if I can stay over at her place.
Of course—she didn’t say anything and then hang up.
Getting aggravated with every one of them, I hang the phone on the receiver with full force, entirely pissed off. Every one of my ex-friends—and frenemy—have rejected me. Was it wrong of me to leave them like that? Why didn’t I have the audacity to tell them the truth about me and Lori? They would’ve helped me but after this whole incident, they won’t.
I rest my crossed arms and head down on the payphone. I sob hysterically against the public device that no one uses anymore. With everyone I used to know to reject me, I now have no place to go. I stood there for a long moment, so I can let it all out.
Grabbing my backpack and my plastic bag of bought-snacks, I leave the convenience store. I have never been this agonized before in my life. Tears continue to pour out of my eyes. I used my black sleeves to wipe them away.
As I fast-walk away in fury and despair, I think about all of their reactions when they first talked to me over the phone and it’s hard to get them out of my head. I can picture all of their faces of what they would look like if we see each other face to face. Anger that I don’t even know what fore.
I try to drown their images off my mind by drinking the soda. The hissing appears when I twist the cap off and I take a large gulp of the soft beverage. The chill and bubbles burn my throat when I swallow. I close the bottle. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. It didn’t help much; the images are still there.
I resume my walk through the suburban area, hoping to look for a temporary place to say. No parents, no friends—the journey on foot is only me. I’m all alone.
I still don’t know where to go. I guess, for now, I have to sit and sleep right on the streets.
Chapter 3: Moving
I lost count of how many hours have passed by and how many miles I’ve wandered around. I’ve looked from place to place, trying to find a spot to rest or something. The suburbs have nothing for me anymore, so I left and kept on wandering away.
As I was walking, I look up at the sky. I realized that it’s getting dark soon. My phone already died and I still can’t find an outlet to charge it. I can’t find out the time or call my dad. It’s also getting colder. I pull my hood over my head and I huddle myself in this hoodie. It’s not going to be warm enough, but it’ll have to do for now. I hope.
I already ate the snacks that I bought from the store. It’s barely enough for me. I don’t have that much on me now. I just remember something; before I left the house and during our physical fight, Lori must have found out that I stole from her and she probably took some of her money back from my pockets and left me only a twenty and singles. I was wondering why it feels less. I spent most of it on small foods and nothing else. Now, I’m left with a ten and very few singles. There’s no way I can survive with this amount of cash.
Feeling lost in my trail of thoughts and thinking about what I should do with the limited cash I have, I notice a train station up ahead. What if I take a public train ride somewhere far away? Should I use dome of my cash to pay for the fare?
One side is telling me I should and the other is telling me I shouldn’t. I could save money and sneak a free ride by crawling under the turnstile. I can do that since I’m small for my age. The only problem is that I can get caught easily. If they catch me sneaking into the station without paying, they may arrest me. This thinking about breaking the law is sending me an adrenaline rush. Simultaneously, it will ruin me forever if I performed such a delinquent act. I don’t want to be under handcuffs and be seen in a police car. It’ll haunt me.
I enter the train station anyway. The fare costs two dollars and seventy-five cents per ride—twenty-five cents more than the last time. Are they fucking kidding me? There’s no way I’m wasting that amount of money for a train ride. Then again, I need to get away from this area; I want to make sure I’m over a hundred miles away, so it’ll be impossible for Dad and Lori to find me. Looks like I’m going to have to make a sacrifice on my money—that I stole from Lori.
I walk to the booth where the public train passes are sold. The guy behind the glass sees me and speaks through the speaker. He asks, “Can I help you?”
I answer, “I just need one ride.” I pull out my cash. I handed him my ten-dollar bill through that little silver tunnel underneath the glass where the money and passes go. He looks at me like he’s seeing a missing child.
He seems concerned, “And just where are you going? Aren’t you a little young to be taking the train all by yourself?”
I’m a little offended that he called me a child. I’m sixteen years old and stuck in the body of a twelve-year-old. I mean that metaphorically, of course.
I tell him, “Don’t worry, I’m sixteen. I’m just going anywhere where the train takes me.” Before he hands me the pass, I ask him, “Do you know where the train stops?”
He informs me that both trains stop at two different locations. I don’t even care if I’m going to a desert or a different country. All it matters to me is the faraway distance away here in New York.
Then, I say, “I guess I’m heading there.”
He gives me the pass and my change. I take them from the little tunnel. He tells me, “Just be careful.”
I thank him and then left the booth. I walk to the turnstile, swipe my pass over it, and push myself through.
The train ride feels like forever. I’m sitting on one of the seats next to the window, leaning my head against it and cuddling my backpack on my lap, closer to my front body. I depressingly gaze through the view; the sun turns orange as it goes down and the skies are getting darker. All I can hear are voices from Lori and my ex-friends. I keep thinking about those angry words they have said to me. It’s giving me a hard time muffling myself from their voices; the more I hear them, the more disheartened I become.
I shed a single teardrop as I continue to stare through the train’s window and thinking about them. Suddenly, I can feel the fatigue coming in. I close my eyes to rest them even though I couldn’t sleep on the train when it’s still moving and when there are people around having incoherent conversations and making noises. I’ll just sit in my seat and keep my eyes shut until we get to the very last stop.
Later, I can feel the train coming to a full end. The doors are wide open for a long time and the train is just sitting idly on the tracks. I woke up from my very short doze—not sure how long I’ve been asleep though—and then lazily glance around to see that the train car is empty. I’m the only one here now. I guess this is the final stop.
Before the door closes, I grab my things, get up from the seat and then hurry out of the train. I made it through.
I exit the train station and make my way to an unfamiliar neighborhood. It’s already dark out and the streetlights shine bright throughout the streets. I can barely see what the buildings look like, but underneath the lights, I can see that this place is empty of people.
“Where the hell am I?” I say to myself as I glance around the dark.
I can hear sirens, dogs barking and cars passing by. By the sounds of the sirens, something tells me that this place isn’t as good as I hoped to be. I can’t take the train ride back to where I was before. Looks like I’m spending the night here for a while.
I stroll through the unfamiliar streets. My stomach grumbles in hunger and I rub it to ease it down. I can’t afford restaurants, especially cheap fast foods, and many stores are closed at this time. The only food I have left is this last piece of mini vanilla cake I’ve been saving and a bottle of water I bought way before I took the train to here. I remove the wrapper and devour my cake. Once it’s done, I take my water and gulp it down, saving the rest for future needs. I drop the wrapper on the ground as the night breeze takes it away and I move on.
Hunger keeps interfering with me during my long walk. Every few years or so whenever I see them, I go through the garbage cans, open up the bags and then rummage through for some discarded food to eat from. I know, it’s gross; however, it’s the only way for me to survive with very little money and to ease the hunger. I found a half-eaten hot dog and a half-eaten sub sandwich that I’m too reckless to know what’s inside. I stuff them into my mouth, eating them whole.
So this is what eating like a homeless youth feels like. It’s disgusting. The hot dog and sandwich I’m eating could have fallen on the ground before getting thrown away. I don’t have a choice.
Both foods are gone and I take another sip of my water to wash it all down before putting the bottle back into my backpack. I’m not full enough but not starving anymore. With a bit of luck, it’ll probably pull me through until the next morning. With my “dinner” done, I continue to walk through the dark streets.
I’ve walked for hours already. It’s getting colder and I huddle myself tighter into my hoodie to keep the warmth. I still don’t know what time is it now. I’m feeling really tired; I need to get some sleep. All the streets and alleys are way too contaminated and disgusting for me to sleep on. And besides, the autumn coldness will worsen if I sleep on the dirty ground.
I stop for a while. I look down at the line of cars sitting parallel-parked against the curb. It makes me think that I can find temporary shelter in one of these cars. It may be crazy and illegal to break into somebody else’s car. I have another thought of adrenaline rush and this time, I decided to follow my instincts.
I run to the first car I see and then pull on its door handle on the driver’s side. It’s locked. I go to the next one. It’s locked as well. I go to the third, then fourth and now the fifth. They’re all locked. I make my way to the sixth car. I pull on its handle—and it’s unlocked!
I opened the unlocked car door, climb into the driver’s seat and closed the door before locking it. I climbed to the back seat, setting my backpack on one end as I sit down on the other end. I curled myself into a fetal position whilst simultaneously lying down and hiding in the dark to make sure no one sees me as I sleep here for the night.
I close my eyes and try to go to sleep. My hoodie is my only blanket and my pillow is just the car seat. It’s hard for me to sleep because of the cold air and the car seat’s uncomfortable cushions.
Mostly—it’s because of that recurring horror and the hellish nightmare I’m now having of Lori’s abuse and my ex-friends’ rejection.
Chapter 4: Screaming
I woke up feeling the light on my face. I lethargically look up to one of the windows. The sun is out albeit covered with heavy clouds. With a closer look, all of the windows are covered with raindrops. It must have rained last night. Judging by the look of the cloudy sun, it must be early morning or something. I should be getting out of this car before its owner comes by and then kick me out.
First, I make sure I have all my stuff on me. Then, I check my leftover cash. I do have everything, which is good. I quickly strap my backpack over my back and then exit the car. I run off to make another escape before anyone catches me trespassing and breaking into a vehicle.
I pull my hood over my head. I honestly don’t want to be seen by the inhabitants in this neighborhood. I’m already scared of where I am now. I’m truly afraid of what they would do to me. I walk in a random direction; it was stupid of me to come into this location that I don’t even know of. I just follow my instincts to wander around this place; I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I continue my runaway journey. During my stroll, I look around the neighborhood for a nearby mini store. I can feel my stomach growling of near hunger and I realized that I needed to use the bathroom. I just hope that I can get whatever that’s fewer than ten dollars and someone would allow me to use their restroom. I keep looking around; I feel like a total lost traveler.
It took me about half an hour to search for a convenience store. I finally found one. I step through the door and a bell tone is heard as I enter. I walk to the cashier. He looks at me from this newspaper as I ask him, “Do you have a restroom here?”
Putting down his newspaper and speaking with a Boston accent, “The bathroom is for paying customers only, young lady.”
Of course; typical. I sigh, “Well, I would like to order something then.” I need to order something to eat anyway. I take my money out of my pockets and then count the cash before looking back up to him. “What do you have that’s fewer than ten bucks?” I have to conserve the rest with what I have left.
The cashier shows me the menu up above the counter. It’s a list of all the sandwiches, burritos and salads they make. I take a quick look at their prices; each ingredient they put in there varies. I didn’t feel like reading them because the prices depress me. I just told him, “Just give me the cheapest you have.”
“Would you like a breakfast burrito then?” he offers. “Every breakfast burrito costs three dollars. No tax.” I reluctantly approve.
I look down at the counter and below it is some kind of refrigerator that contains numerous drinks; soda cans, juice bottles, sports drinks and of course, water. I pull out a large bottle of water and then set it on the counter. I tell the cashier, “And this bottle of water, too. How much is it?”
He told me the price of the water. The total of it and the burrito is $4.75. I pay it with a five and he gave me change with one quarter. I thank him.
“Your burrito will be done shortly.” He says.
“As I wait, may I use your bathroom?” I ask meekly. He nods; he gives me a wooden block with the bathroom key attached to it and points me to where the bathroom is. I make my way there.
Despite the nastiness inside the bathroom meant only for one person, I spent my time there using the toilet and washing my hands afterward. When I look at the filthy mirror, I notice that I haven’t been brushing my teeth or bathing. I look disgusting; I didn’t bring my toothbrush, toothpaste or any of my hygienic products with me. I cannot afford to buy any of them nor can I find the right places to bathe and brush beside the public restrooms that only allow paying customers.
Wanting to wash my hair a little, I turn the sink’s faucet on again. I dunk my head into the sink and let the water wet my hair. It’s a good thing that I cut my hair short yesterday, even though I miss my long hair; the shorter it is, the quicker the washing and drying will be. Once my hair is all wet, I squeeze a handful of liquid soap sitting at the sink’s corner and I lather my head vigorously. It doesn’t smell that good. The white foamy bubbles soak my hair and I take my head back into the sink to let the running water rinse it all down.
When it’s all gone and done, I turn off the water. I comb through my short damp hair with my fingers. Lastly, I move myself to the hand-dryer. I duck my head below the blower, push it on and the warm air blows my hair as I shake it with my fingertips. The hand-dryer automatically stops after thirty seconds. My hair is not entirely dry yet, though I’d rather not waste another half a minute; I’ll just let the air dry it.
I look at myself in the mirror again. I look worst than before. The air from the hand-dryer made my hair all shaggy and messy. No time to fix it. I need to pick up my breakfast burrito and water and get the hell out of here before the owner kicks me out for spending too much time here in the bathroom and treating it likes it’s my home. I finally leave the store with my purchased food and all of my things.
I walk through the streets again. I ate my burrito down to the bottom as I wander around aimlessly and indulging in the warmth of scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese. It’s not that good because it’s a little too greasy. At least I have something decent to consume other than that discarded hot dog and sandwich from the garbage last night. I crumple up the greasy wrapper into a ball and I toss it into a garbage can on the corner of the street. I take a sip of my water and then resume walking without any interference.
I still don’t know where I should go or where I should be. I’m down to my last singles and I worry of not surviving well with this amount of cash. What do homeless teenagers do for money? Beg? Maybe play the guitar and ask for tips? I could do that… except I can’t even strum a simple guitar string. I’m not Taylor Swift. At least I don’t have over sixteen different boyfriends.
Anyway, I need to make sure I conserve what’s more important to me. Otherwise, I might…
“Well,” I suddenly hear a perverted and malicious masculine raspy voice behind me. I gasp in fright. “What do we have here?”
I turn around to see who it was. Right behind me is an olive-skinned muscular guy in his late twenties with dark hair standing in between his two cronies, both Caucasian with one having a blonde mohawk and the other a crew cut. All three are wearing clothes that represent bikers and punks in the eighties and all three have similar black leather jackets. By the looks of their faces, they all seem perverted, just as I anticipated. The dark one in the middle has a cigarette hanging from his lips and the smell of tobacco and nicotine sickens me. The crew cut is holding a metal pipe while the mohawk is holding a glass bottle with its bottom broken off; he’s pointing the shards at me. I don’t like where this is going. I’m getting scared. I’m panting in complete fright.
The dark leader removes his cigarette from his lips and holds it in between his fingertips, shaking the ashes down to the ground. They step closer to me. “I’m suddenly in the mood for a little Asian doll."
"Should we use our weapons on her?” The one with the pipe asks him. He and the other follower prepare their weapons.
The leader raises his hand back to the two. “Drop them. We don’t need them at all.” They comply and he drops his hand down. He sneers at me.
I step back away from them but I accidentally hit the dead-end when I lean against the brick outside wall. They incarcerated me, preventing me from escaping. All three pairs of eyes are staring at me with lust. I stammer, “What do you want from me?”
The leader maliciously says, “Are you heading somewhere, little girl? You lost?” I’m offended when he called me that.
I snap, “I’m not a little girl! And I’m not lost! I’m just running away from home!” Why did I say that? Damn you, instincts.
“Oh, so you’re a homeless runaway, huh? Sweet,” the leader says.
“She’s too hot to be homeless,” the mohawk crony says.
“Yeah,” the crew cut crony replies.
I try to get away from them. They keep blocking my way. “Look, if you’re thinking about mugging me, I don’t have that much money on me, okay? They’re all I have!” I cry out.
“We don’t want your money or your stuff,” the leader answers instantly. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just answer us!”
I stood silent. I swallow with anxiety. “Ricki. Ricki Shi.”
“Ricki Shi, huh? I like that name,” he coos with huskiness. He inhales and then exhales his cigarette smoke. He temporarily turns to his friends, “Satan, Lucifer,” he demands them. “Hold her down.”
They comply. They quickly grab me, two pairs of bigger hands grabbing tightly on my upper arms. I gasp loudly and they’re all looking down at me with a combination of lust and malignity. Their hold is hurting me. I try to struggle myself free and scream for help, but the crew cut follower covers my mouth with his hand, muffling me.
Crew Cut (I don’t know if he’s Satan or Lucifer) has his face closer to mines. “Don’t even think about calling for help. You better keep this to yourself… or else.”
Mohawk has his face closer to mines as well on the other side, “That’s right. You don’t want us to shove glass up to your ass, do you?” I shook my head. “Good.”
The leader joins. I can feel myself crying in fear and vulnerability. He sneers again as he orders, “Take this bitch to the back of that alley over there, where no one can see or hear us.”
I get carried and dragged into the alley as my screams are still being muffled. I got thrown to the ground with my back painfully hitting against the brick wall and concrete. My backpack has fallen right next to me. Satan and Lucifer still have me bounded into their hold securely on the ground, making my escape more impossible.
The leader gets closer to me and crouches down on the ground. He crudely grabs the buttons and zipper of my jeans and undid them, forcefully yanking it down to my ankles, revealing my panties. Next, he roughly undid the zipper of my hoodie before yanking it open and ripping up my T-shirt with his bare hands. My bra and upper body are visible to the three. They stare at my body with more lust. I’m shaking; this is the last thing I want.
“She’s fucking perfect, alright,” the leader comments while his two friends agree. While I’m still being bounded, each of them undid their jeans, revealing their phalluses towards me.
I’m not a virgin, but this is extremely painful for me.
For the next half hour or so, one by one, I get fucked by each three. Then they decided to go the hard way—and fucked me all at once; vaginally, orally and anally. I ended up having to taste and swallow their nasty fluids.
When they’re done with me, the trio stood back up from the ground, redid their jeans and then stares at me as I stay down all helpless. I'm on my hands and knees with my head down, crying in complete agony. I vulnerably gaze up at them.
“Remember,” the leader warns me with a threat, “Don’t say a fucking word about us, you little slut.” He turns to his cronies. “Come on, guys. Let’s leave this homeless whore here to rot in the trash.” And all three of them left, leaving me all alone and deserted in the alley.
Painstakingly, I wipe the semen off my lips with the back of my hand. I lean against the dead-end of the alley, still sitting on the ground with complete agony. I bend my knees up to my chest and hold them close to myself. I begin to sob with incorrigible trauma; tears well up in my eyes and I sniff. I rest my forehead on my knees and cry uncontrollably at the pain they just gave me.
I stay here in this alley for a long time. The image of me being gang-banged is just too hard to get rid of.
Chapter 5: Begging
Minutes after sitting in the alley crying, I took my time to fix up my jeans and change my shirt. I had to throw away the T-shirt I was wearing before; there’s no point in wearing them anymore because the rapists ripped it up real badly. I went through my backpack and pulled out a new shirt, put it one and then put my hoodie back on. As I was changing clothes, I have this painful feeling down there in between my legs and my ass. It hurts do badly and it’s hard for me to get up.
I leave the alley with my pack over my shoulder. I look both ways to figure out where I should go. I couldn’t decide, so I just let my impulses do the work. I go to my right and walk straight down to wherever as I try to ignore the soreness from that torturous gang-rape.
For the next thirty to forty-five minutes, I kept walking and walking. I gaze around the autumn leaves, very old buildings, and the contaminated concrete grounds. I got distracted by the appalling sights, I didn’t realize I’m crossing the road with the pedestrian light showing a red don’t-cross sign. One car screeched to a stop and then rudely honked at me for nearly running me over. I jumpy with my heart pounding at the scare it sent me.
The female driver yells at me through the window. “The traffic light’s fucking green!” I quickly step back to the corner, so she could resume. I watch her speed.
“Bitch,” I call her under my breath. I hope she gets her license revoked. I wait until the traffic light turns red and the pedestrian light turns into a walking symbol. I cross the street when it’s safe now.
I try my best not to get distracted by the ugly street sights and the inhabitants crudely passing by my. People can be so freaking rude in this area. No wonder this part of New York is a mess. A couple of girls—one blonde and one brunette—both gave me an attitude for getting into their space when I accidentally bumped into them by the arm.
“Do you mind?!” One said.
“Get out of the way!” The other said.
See what I mean? They ignored my apology. Disregarding their crudeness towards me, I kept walking. I make sure I stay away from people because I don’t want to suffer too much from everyone else’s disrespect. What do they have against me?
My mindless stroll leads me to a large store up ahead of my direction. I stop for a minute to look up and inspect that it’s a market—a supermarket that has everything. How lucky is that? I resume walking to the front of the store and stop again, standing by the double doors.
Before I enter, I check my pockets and take my cash out to recount them. My luck ended. This is definitely not enough to buy me a box full of snacks or even a small meal.
“Shit,” I curse myself. I feel so disappointed that I’m losing a lot of money. I wanted to cry now for being broke. I try to fight it since I’m in front of bystanders and customers entering and exiting the supermarket. I hate crying in public. They’ll see and think of me like a lost child.
I walk right to the market’s corner and then sit down on the ground, leaning against the wall with my knees bent up to my chest. My backpack sits in between my legs and stomach and I cuddle it like it’s my baby. I close my eyes with my hands, hiding in my long sleeves, covering them; not only to hide my tears but to also think of something. This lasts for about a minute.
Suddenly, I feel something hard, small and rectangular in the front pocket of my backpack. It’s not my phone; it’s way too small and narrow to be my phone. I open and uncover my eyes to check inside. I unzip the backpack’s pocket before taking my hand in there—and there it is. That metallic texture and many holes aligned on the narrow side that I haven’t felt for a long time. I take it out.
It's my harmonica.
Before she passed away, my mom gave this to me on my fifth birthday. I loved playing with this harmonica back then and I used to love the sound it makes when I blow on it. I remember playing the harmonica with my mom while she was lying in bed feeling sick. She had a smile on her face after I entertained her with nonsensical tinny music. Seeing her get-well face made me happy. Just looking at this harmonica makes me think about my mother. God, I really miss her. Ever since her death and every time I feel sad in any way, I play this little instrument to calm myself down.
Seeing myself growing up with the harmonica brought me nostalgia. But those memories abruptly died away when the image of my mom’s grave appears. I begin to cry some more (and suddenly, I don’t care if others see me like this anymore). With my mom gone and Lori in the picture, all the distress and other emotional pain are killing me.
Maybe I should play it.
I take my hands out of my sleeves and grasp the harmonica. I bring it to my lips and I started blowing through it. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this calming sound. I still feel depressed, so I kept playing it. It started off from a random single note playing to a musical humming song. I don’t even know what song I’m playing; it’s just a simple random blowing from side to side.
I persistently play the harmonica while thinking about my mother at the same time. The song unintentionally turns into a sad humming tune and more tears are running down. More bystanders and market customers pass by me and I try to ignore them.
One woman and her child, both fair skin with brown hair, are walking hand to hand. They momentarily stop their stroll to pay attention to me, looking all sympathetic. They watch me play sadly.
“Mama,” the child asks her mother. “What is this girl doing?” I’m still trying to ignore them and continue playing my harmonica, minding my own business.
“I don’t know, Tiffany,” the mother remarks with sweetness. “But I think she needs help.”
“Help for what?” Little Tiffany is inquisitive.
“Here, I’ll show you.” The mother reaches for her wallet from her purse and then takes out a few bills. She and Tiffany walk towards me. That’s when I realize—the mother drops her money down into my backpack’s opened front pocket.
I stop playing for a second and then look inside with perplexity. I look up to her and her daughter. She smiles while Tiffany has her finger in her mouth with curiosity.
“Mama, what did you just do?” Tiffany asks again.
She answers her, “This is called donating. It’s a good thing because we’re helping this poor girl.”
“Oh,” the girl coos and resumes playing with her fingers in her mouth.
I check the bulls she gave me: a five and two singles. That’s seven dollars. I look up to her again. “This is not what I’m expecting, but,” I pause and sniff. “Thank you.”
Before they leave, Tiffany toddles towards me—and she gives me a hug. She tells me, “I’m donating you a hug.”
I feel so much warmth from her, so I hug her back. Then she breaks off the quick embrace. She walks back to her mother. The mother smiles.
“You’re welcome.” Then, the mother and little Tiffany hold hands and walk away.
I check the bills again. I can’t believe she gave me seven dollars just for playing my harmonica. Did she really think I was begging for money? I wasn’t planning to beg or start an unlicensed street performance albeit it was nice of her to do that for me, and I did feel touched and loved at what she said about me. I can never forget that hug I received from that little girl.
I keep playing. Not exactly to beg for more money. I’m only playing it to mitigate all the sadness away. Unexpectedly, as several more people come to me when hearing my depressing harmonica music, they donated some of their money to me by putting them into my backpack’s pocket. They probably can perceive the bruises, cuts, and tears on my face. The marks and waterworks must’ve been the reason why these New Yorkers decided to be generous to me. How touching.
For the rest of the day, I spent my time playing my harmonica and so far, I’ve—accidentally—made about fifteen dollars and a lot of change. It’s not a lot. It’ll hopefully do for now. When I’m done, I used the earned cash to buy myself some small meals. I left the market and wander away from it and search for a new spot to temporarily stay. I even hide in alleys to do my nature’s call. It’s gross, but it’s all I have to do.
I found a park as I’m walking through the neighborhood. Until the sun sets, I stay in the part where others are around doing certain activities: jogging, walking their dogs, simply strolling and texting at the same time, you know it. I sit on the grass to play my harmonica either in an attempt to earn—or inadvertently beg for—more money or just to relax.
Everything is the same until night comes: looking for something to eat, harmonica time, looking for a bathroom spot outside of the park, harmonica time, and so forth. When it’s finally dark out and the street lights turn on, I leave the park just in time before the gate closes.
I roam through the streets again for countless minutes or hours. It’s cold again. I yawn and I’m completely sluggish. I thought about sleeping in an unlocked car again, like last night. Unfortunately, it won’t be happening again; I’d rather not waste my time searching for any unlocked cars or break into any one of them and then get arrested afterward. It’s too risky. Plus, the seats are uncomfortably as hell to sleep on.
Instead of looking through cars, I search for a bench or something. I found one metal-steel bench behind the bus stop. I fast-walk there, set my backpack on one end and I lay myself down on my side. I pull my hood over my head to keep myself warm. I rest my head on top of my backpack and use it as a pillow.
Before I go into a deep sleep, right on this hard and uncomfortable bench, I gaze up at the sky. Its dark clouds are blocking the moon and they seem heavy. I just hope it wouldn’t rain on me. I don’t have an umbrella on me nor can I afford one. The wind blows and it’s giving me the chills. I snuggle deeper into my hoodie and pull the hood down even more to cover my face.
I don’t know how long this will last. I’m not even sure if I can survive any longer here in the streets.
Even if I did earn money, I worry that I won’t make any more sometime in the future. I’m truly aware that it’s not going to last that long. Everyone will quickly get over with the depressing-harmonica-begging thing and move on with something else. Once all of my cash is gone, it’s back to eating from the garbage.
I hate being homeless. I really do. But there’s no way I’m going back to that dysfunctional place I once called “home.”
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