Out of My League
**Trigger warning: mentions of rape, abuse
Song: Out of My League by Fitz and the Tantrums
Priscilla’s point of view.
Another night of sleeping under a bridge, but it was another night of freedom. Anything was better than going home. I use the word home loosely, it was my father’s house, and it was far from a home. The streets were my home, I could go where I wanted and choose my company. The LA streets were my home, my concrete jungle, I just didn’t have any walls to be confined by.
I left my dad’s house six weeks ago and I had no intention of returning. He had been abusive to me since I could remember. It had gotten worse. The bruises on my arms were mostly faded. He rarely hit me in the face, he didn’t want to damage my pretty face, especially since it reminded him of my mother.
My mother. She left when I was three. She left me alone to be abused by this fucking monster. I wouldn’t know her if she said hi to me. I hope she had a good fairytale life since she sacrificed me for it. She was dead to me.
You’d think I would have a glamorous, fairytale life since my father is a famous music producer, Marshall Litman. I grew up in a mansion that was way too big for anybody to live in, the most expensive toys I would grow bored with, and having staff wait on me. The staff were my true family figures, showing me kindness and humbleness, nothing I got from father. The staff watched me get abused, and whenever they tried to report him or confront him, he would simply fire them and hire someone else. Anytime I would get attached to someone, they would leave me. I learned at a young age to not get attached, it’s a weakness as my dad said.
I’m 22 now. On my 18th birthday, I left home for the first time. I tried staying with friends, only for my dad’s cronies to drag me back home. My dad always had someone do his dirty work for him, which meant tracking me down for him. He raped me and beat me so bad I couldn’t leave the bed for a week.
This time I was running and not looking back. I deleted all my social media, paid everything with cash, anything to cover my tracks. I no longer had a phone, I didn’t need one, it actually felt liberating to not have a phone glued to my hand. I used to stay with friends but once my dad figured out where my friends lived, I had to abandon that idea, especially for their own safety. Nobody was going to be harmed by my father because of me, no fucking way.
I took a moment to count how much cash I had left. $150. I had more money in my trust fund but I couldn’t access it when I was on the lam, I had to be as incognito as I could. I left home with the clothes on my back, my notebook, my iPod, my chargers, my headphones, and $300 in cash. I spent most of it on cheap hotels, never staying at the same one twice. I checked in under fake names with a fake ID I got online (don’t ask). The seedy hotel employees never questioned it, they just took the money and went on about their work, quickly forgetting me in the void of other people running away to hotels.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, I knew I needed to find work but how do you work when you’re being hunted and your hunter is a powerful man? I needed to find a place, maybe out of California all together, but I’m sure Father had spies on every public transport, so that was too risky. And I wasn’t hitchhiking, there was less of a gamble I would be hurt by stranger, but still a gamble I wasn’t attempting.
I went to a local Starbucks and washed up in the bathroom. It had been a good week or so since I showered, but I had managed to swipe some no rinse shampoo and deodorant from a drug store. It wasn’t something I was proud of, but all was fair in survival.
I bought a muffin and a bottle of water. I sat at the table in the back, hoping I would fade into the wallpaper. One employee would recognize me, she would always smile at me. Sometimes she would give me cake pops and bottled waters for free if her boss wasn’t around. Bless her. I watched life pass me by on the Los Angeles sidewalks. A couple walking their dog, kids running across the crosswalk like it was the funnest thing in the world. How I wished for my innocence back, a loyal companion, hell I wanted a dog.
After finishing my muffin, I brushed my teeth with the toothbrush I had in my backpack. Living life with my essentials on my back, I was a human turtle in a world of humans I couldn’t trust. No wonder turtles would bite at humans.
I finished my water. How many empty bottles did I have in my bag? Six. Not much, but it was extra change. I made my way to the recycling center nearby. I left with $3.00, woo. I stopped in front of the music store and watched the music videos playing on the televisions. Was that Ronnie Radke? I used to crush on him, I hadn’t listen to Falling in Reverse since high school.
With nowhere else to go, I casually strolled into the store. Only like two other people were there. Vinyl and plastic cds lined the shelves, it was heaven to me. On the days I wasn’t being abused, the solace I found at home was burying myself with my music in my room. I would alphabetize my albums by artist. I hated leaving my albums behind, my treasure, but I had to carry light, hopefully one day I could replace my collection.
I drifted towards the rock and metal section. Ooh, the new Sleep Token album. They were a new favorite of mine, their music helping me sleep during my insomniac nights. A blue flash caught my eyes. A guy in front of me had on blue light up shoes. I softly chuckled to myself, I hadn’t seen light up shoes since elementary school, I didn’t know they made them for adults.
The guy turned around and caught my staring. “Is it the shoes?”
I gave a small sarcastic smile. “Maybe.”
He didn’t look much older than me. Wavy black hair, piercing dark eyes, dark tattoos gracing his chestnut arms. I couldn’t deny how cute he was, but I wasn’t about to tell him that, he probably heard that all the time, a player I bet.
He stomped his foot, causing the shoe to light up again. “I couldn’t resist buying these, they’re just too cool.”
It was weirdly endearing to see the small spark of joy in his eyes. It must’ve been nice finding so much happiness in something as simple as shoes. Growing up with luxurious items, material possessions meant little to me, it didn’t change my situation.
He looked at the album in my hands. “Sleep Token? Great choice.”
Oh a fan? It had been a long time since I’ve talked to anybody about music. “Yeah their music helps me sleep, so their name is appropriate.”
The guy cracked up. “Maybe that was their whole intention was to help people sleep.”
Fitz and the Tantrums’ “Out of My League” played over the speakers. Sweet nostalgia filled me.“I haven’t heard this song in forever.”
His eyebrows hitched in surprise. “You know this song? Fitz and the Tantrums?”
I shrugged. “They may or may not be my guilty pleasure band.”
“Get out! I secretly rock out to them when my band isn’t around.”
Of course he was a musician. He had the look and was trying to act too cool for school.
“You’re in a band?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m the singer for Poets of Riot,” he said. “We’re about to go on our first tour.”
“‘Poets of Riot’? Sounds like a coffee shop band,” I snorted.
He rubbed the back of neck, possibly feeling that small stab to his ego. “Well music is poetry, and you need to riot once in a while to make your point. Poets can be real badasses.”
Okay his logic wasn’t horrible. I loved Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, and Edgar Allan Poe.
“Who’s your favorite poet?” I asked.
“Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Frost, Shel Silverstein, Shakespeare when I can understand him, and Emily Dickinson.”
Huh. So this guy had depth. He wasn’t another dimwitted rock star poser. He was smart and had some soul.
“I like all of them too. What’s your favorite Silverstein poem?” I inquired.
He moved a piece of hair out of his face. “I like the mask one. I actually have the mask illustration tattooed on my arm.”
Above his elbow was the mask drawing I remembered so well from the poem. I used to read Silverstein and Roald Dahl again and again as a kid. Books were such a magnificent getaway from my hellish life. I wanted to live in a world combined with Silverstein and Dahl’s creations and philosophies, it definitely would be a better place to live.
“My name is Luke by the way. What’s yours?”
I knew better than to give away my name or anything about me. I knew my dad was still looking for me. But Luke felt different, not some sketchy guy or a wannabe rock star. He reminded me of myself…or who I should’ve been had it not been for the darkness that I’ll always live with.
“Priscilla.”
Luke smiled. He had perfect teeth. “Lovely name. Like Elvis’ wife.”
I stopped myself from cringing. “Yup, that’s who I was named after. My dad was an Elvis fan.”
“I was named after my grandfather Lucas, but I go by Luke because I think it’s edgier.”
I stared at him hard. “Luke was a biblical character. A lot of religious parents name their kid that.”
Luke laughed. “Sweetheart, I haven’t been to church since Easter when I was five.”
I couldn’t help but giggle as I thought about five year old Luke in a suit in church. He didn’t strike me as the religious type.
“My band is actually performing a show tonight if you want to check us out. It’s our last show before we start the tour.”
I probably shouldn’t have trusted to meet a stranger somewhere, but I liked Luke’s company and I needed to see for myself if his band was as good as he says it was.
“I’ll go, but don’t call me sweetheart.”
