Prologue
*Adrianna’s Point Of View*
“Hey, that guy told me he likes you,” she said.
“If he really likes me he would be able to tell me that himself,” I said proudly.
I was prepared to leave and forget that anyone had said they liked me that day. Even though he was the first boy to ever lay his eyes on me.
“I really like you, Adrianna.” Justin said sneaking up behind me.
“Wait, how do you know my name?” I asked, tilting my head. Before he could speak, my friend stepped in.
“Let’s just say he’s had his eyes on you for a little while now.” She said, winking at me.
Instantly I felt danger but protection in his eyes a sort of wildness that I’ve been missing in my life. I mean life wasn’t bad but it wasn’t particularly good either. Little did I know that he was living a hell of his own. Nowadays I think I made that hell burn hotter.
That day we talked and talked and talked, it felt like the sun never came down. We’d be on the phone for hours. I’ve come to realize that our love wasn’t real. We were each other’s distractions for something.
He distracted me from the boredom of life and I distracted him, from the fact that his mother was dying from cancer. You can’t call that love. Even though it wasn’t love it gave me a burning sensation in my heart. No, It wasn’t loving but it was passion.
He knew of everything, My past, My present, and My dreams of the future. He was my first everything. My first love, first kiss, and first boyfriend.
He accepted my imperfections. He accepted me being a loner, me being weird and damaged. I loved you for you blew my mind. He accepted me more than people I have known since 2nd grade.
We were addicted to each other. We would argue every day. Say we hated each other but we never dared to break up. Until I transferred schools and everything changed. My father became a drunk.
He was imprisoned by the stress of getting out of the army and not being able to find a job. My mother hated him, she had to work 2 jobs to help with the rent. My mom hated me also, I was young and had my father's features. She hated that the older she got the more sickly ill she looked.
The older I got the more my body matured. One time my mother was crying and I tried to comfort her and she hit and beat me and soon after she started doing it more.
