We pull our hoods up to conceal our faces even more in the dark. It's cold, wet, and bitter; everything we're used to. Well, everything I'm used to, at least. I ran away from my old life when I was just fourteen, leaving the old Scarlet behind.

I know what you're thinking; I ran away because mommy refused to buy me a bunch of expensive s***. But it's not like that Not like that at all. At the age of fourteen, my mom's boyfriend tried raping me. I kicked his head in before he got my pants off. In return, he slashed the side of my face with his blade, earning me the name Scar on the streets. I'm not gonna lie; it's a bad ass scar. My mother hadn't believe me, though. No surprise there. She thought I did it to myself, on purpose, for attention. I cried to hard that night I thought I couldn't cry anymore. What kind of mother didn't believe her own daughter? I was wrong; I did cry more. I cried a lot more. It turned into a scar. I had already thought I was ugly. Why did I have to be even more ugly? Why? A terrible scar that become a part of my face. A part of me. Of who I was, and everything I now stand for.

Don't cry for me. I finally left that hell hole after a while. Things happen in life; You have to take what life throws at you, and turn it into a lesson learned. Or you get left in the dust. After my face had healed, I finally summoned up the courage to leave the house that was never a home. The house that could never be a home. That night was the last time I ever remember crying. I left Sammi. My beloved sister that couldn't spell her own name right, and insisted it was spelled with an I instead of a Y. The sister that I loved, the sister I would die for in a heart beat. Sammi was only thirteen at the time. I thirteen year old girl had no place on the streets. I had no choice. I knew what the streets did to you. They turn you into a cold, harsh person if you're not careful enough. They can also make you strong.

The streets crush you like a bug the first few weeks. You're hungry, a lot. You think you miss the house that was never a home. The house that could never be a home. You try to talk yourself into going back, that you can't make it out here on your own. You start to miss food, and hot water. You run out of money. You have to learn the trick of the trade. Learn how to steal. Learn how to make alliances, and break them just as fast. Sammi was not ready for any of that.

I went back for her two years later. She had changed so much. When I first saw her, I had almost changed my mind. She was miserable, but I still wasn't sure if she was ready for life on the streets. Our mother had become a prostitute, and was selling her body for profit. That wasn't the only thing she was selling. Sammi started crying when she saw me. I had knocked on her bedroom window. She was in bed wearing my old hunting jacket that I left behind for her to remember me by. At that point, I still was still thinking about what I could do, what I could say to make it as easy and painless as possible.



After I convinced her that we had to leave, I cleaned out my mom's drug money. Our mother was passed out on the couch, hammered. She looked so peaceful. Even if she was completely drunk off her ass. She almost looked like a real mother would after a day of house work. A mother that just happened to fall asleep on the couch. But this was no accident, the house was not clean, and she was no real mother. For a second. . . I almost thought about staying. Staying for Sammi, for my mother; to be a real family. But I knew that there was no point. There was nothing left here for me anymore. There was nothing left for Sammi. Things couldn't possibly go back to normal. There's no way, no point in trying to glue the shards of glass back together. You can't fix something so broken.

One of the saddest and hardest parts was when I had to sit Sammi down, and tell her that we couldn't take all of her things with us. Only the most important things could come; like warm clothes, good shoes, a blanket or two, and a heavy coat. There was no room for little things that would do nothing but weigh us down. She took her favorite, warmest clothes, some sturdy boots, a notebook or two, a handful of pens, the necklace our mother had given us, and my old hunting jacket along with a variety of important things. When we finally left, I told her that I my name wasn't Scarlet anymore, and she couldn't be Sammi anymore. She got this wide eyed expression, and almost started crying. This was real. This would be the end, and a whole new beginning, and she had just realized this. I told her that she could be anyone and anything she wanted to be. In celebration of the death of her old name, and old life, she chose Ashes.

"Scar and Ashes, I like it." That was the last thing I remember Sammi saying as we walked down the driveway, and into the darkness, her old life crashing and burning into ashes with each step.

***

I squeeze Ashes hand softly as we walk down the dark alley way. I press my trusty old pocket knife into her pale hand. She nods, telling me she understands. We have to be careful around parts of New York like this. Danger, instinct, the smell of sweat and blood all around us, and the cold biting at my face remind me that I've seen worse.

I run my numb hand against the hard brick wall, trying to stay hidden in the dark. Ashes shivers behind me, we press ourselves against the wall, trying to stay hidden in the dark. Ashes shivers behind me as we inch closer and closer to the exit of the alley. These minutes will be critical. We don't know if anyone claims this as their territory. We don't know anything about this area, besides where we're at. Anything and anyone could be lurking in the shadows of the darkness, waiting for two girls like us. My heart starts beating faster and faster; I can hear it in my ears. There's a clank and a scattering noise as something flickers in the small amount of moon light that shines down into the darkened alley. Ashes shivers again, and this time, I think it's more than the cold that's getting to her. She hoists her bag a little, and we keep moving.

My feet hurt, my hands are cold, and my face is numb. I want nothing more than to get Ashes and I out of this alley safely. I squeeze her hand twice; the signal to run. She closes her eyes, and nods, sighing. She's tired, probably more than I am. When she opens her eyes again, we sprint out of the alley, and down the next block. We only stop when I make sure no one's following us. Ashes tries to hand me the pocket knife back. I shake my head. "Nah, keep it."

Her pale face almost brightens in the darkness. This is the girl that is my sister. The sister I'd die for. The sister I never, ever once thought I would ever hand a weapon to and say: "Show no mercy to thy enemy, to thy threat." Her eyes which are usually like gray daggers soften as she nods.

She's been living with me on the streets for about two months now. It's been hard for her, I know that. The first few weeks, even months are always the hardest, I know that better than anyone. I've taught her how to trade, gamble, and compromise. I'm still teaching her. Life on the streets is never easy to learn, especially in a city like New York. She's got the stealing part down. I swear she's like a natural.

I stick my switch blade in my hoodie, and we continue walking. "Do you miss mom?" She asks as we pass a Subway fast food place. My mouth waters at the thought of real food. "What?" I ask playing dumb is one of my many specialties. "Do you miss mom," She repeats again. I don't even have to think about this. "Nah, I'm happy I got out when I did."

"I don't know Scar...I miss our old lives." This stops me short. She's only been on the streets for around two months, and she already wants to go back, back to the house that was never a home? "A Mother is God in the eyes of a child", I recite in a half whisper. I heard it in a movie once. I think it was called Silent Hill, or something like that. No matter how bad life at home is, no matter how terrible a Mother is, a child will always love and forgive their Mother. But Ashes is not a kid anymore, she knows better. But then another place flashes in my mind, another place, a safe, sane place, filled with good memories. I see what Ashes saw, a place so long dead that there is really no point in what could be, what should be. A place that is so filled with false promises and painted smiles it hurts.



Ashes stops walking. "I am not a child," she whispers. I stop walking. "You are until you prove yourself out here! Those memories are dead! DEAD I tell you! They do not exist in our world anymore! Life on the streets is not a picnic! That lady you call mom? We are dead to her! She is DEAD to US." I have to stop myself from shaking her shoulders. She nods, blinking back tears. Harsh, Bitter, Cold, Tense, Rough, Hard, and the list goes on and on. It's all I've been since I've joined the streets. I sigh. They don't call me Scar for nothing. I've done things, bad thing. I have a reputation because of those things. People stay away from the girl with the distinctive scar on her face. The girl with Auburn hair. The girl with piercing blue eyes, hard as blue ice, sharp as razor blades. "I should have never had you come with me, "You were never ready." My words send her into a panic and her ash grey eyes widen with terror. "No! I'm ready. I'll prove myself, whatever it takes." I can't blame her. When I first started living my life on the streets of New York, I screwed up a lot. I made alliances and broke them almost just as fast as I made them. I don't my little sister to make the same mistakes as me. I want her to be better, and stronger than me. I can't let her against me, either. I tried making a pact, a cult, you might say. It didn't turn out to well. It didn't do any good, just made almost a hundred different people mad at me. It sent even more after me. They all backed off after they heard I murdered some in cold, red blood.

"It's okay; don't worry about it right now." I say as I push her light, thin hair back. She looks nothing like me. She's thin, a healthy weight. I'm way to skinny from never eating. She has blonde hair; I have Auburn hair. Out on the streets, depending on if you have distinctive looks or not, you may or may not make it. It can be a key aspect to make you, or break you. It all depends on your name, the people you know, and your reputation.

I wipe away her smudged eyeliner, and we keep moving. We say nothing as we turn the next block. Suddenly, a dark silhouette approaches us. I slightly cough; a signal Ashes to ready her weapons, just in case it's needed. They're less than a couple of feet away from us when whoever it is takes down their hood, exposing a boy around my age, maybe older, with blonde hair coming down to his piercing blue eyes.

"Scar," He nods at us, "Ashes." I sigh. "My leader has been looking for you for quite some time now." I raise an eyebrow. His leader? The Hell? This random wanna-be-cult-assistant-person hunts me down to tell me his wanna-be-cult-leader-person has been looking for me? That's cool. Not the first time. Probably not the last. "And you are?" I ask. "Bleu," He replies casually, throwing a smile in my direction. Looks like Ashes and I aren't the only one who's acquired cult nicknames. "Well Bleu, we don't know who these Scar and Ashes you speak of, but we are not them." Ashes says, crossing her arms over her chest. I smile at this. Ashes is finally learning, kind of. I sigh; this is exactly what I've been avoiding for a very long time. A questionable smile plays at Bleu's lips. I take down my hood, the scar on my cheek glistens in the street lights. Bleu catches his breath. "Not what you expected, eh?" His smile vanishes.











This indeed, is going to be interesting.


















***