A girl who is inspired to write her life story is forced to do the advice column. She realizes it's all hoax but she receives a real love note. Will she open her heart and actually trust somebody? ...
Who am I? Maybe I should've said something. My name is Xena. I have no last name. I won't take my parents. I won't take any of those foster parents. If they actually love me they would've told me. They would've adopted me. My name means a woman warrior. Maybe those parents knew they would be this. Maybe they knew they would hurt me. Maybe they knew I would be strong. But I'm probably wrong. I bet they were hoping for a boy. A tough boy that wouldn't cry at the thought of a whip. Yes they hit me every night. All night. Maybe they thought of naming me Xavier. They might've made a typo. I wouldn't be surprised. Even fifteen years later, I remember everything crystal clearly. I remember my mom getting drinking. The foster care told me she got drunk and high. When I asked. Three year ago. I shouldn't have asked. I didn't care right? No. I did care. I want to know why my parents would be so mean to me. I want to know why they hit me. I hate those late nights when my dad came in. He would, all too eagerly, hit me with whips. Hard. On my ass. Really hurt. My mom would watch. She would laugh. I would cry. Even as I tried to sleep. I faked it. He would wake me up. He would hit me harder. Sometimes my mom joined. If she wasn't too drunk. That is exactly what I get for trusting somebody. I have whip marks on my back. Many of them. As I sit down, they would still hurt me. I still don't know why some people would be so rude.
The only people I ever trusted were Tianna and Ms. Ping. They are nice. They aren't rude. They like me. They don't want me to change. They feel for me. They think I could change. They believe in me. They think there is hope after all. I don't though. I should. After all that effort I should be greatful. But I'm not. I don't care. They love me and whether I change or not, they won't care. Hopefully.
As I was saying the room. The bullshit newspaper room. I was in it. I was here. I can write now. Here. Instead of my dark room full of screaming and running people. At least that was one good thing. A bad thing? The girl staring at me, as if she could kill me.