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When I was little I wanted my life to mean something. I grew up as the black sheep, the middle child, often accidentally forgotten. I was outdone allot, my siblings usually were the center of attention, they often won awards and titles that I couldn’t dream of achieving. I convinced myself that it was for a reason. I believed that someday my time would come. I pictured myself as the hero, maybe I’d take a bullet for someone, maybe I’d rush in and save the day, I truly believed that I would do something great one day. When I was 18 I decided it was time to fly the nest, however with no college degree, no high paying job, and the cost of rent being astronomical in the Seattle area, apartments weren’t in budget. So 6 months into my 18th year I set out in my own personal van. I called it Bertha. Life was great, but I became very aware of how isolated I had become. Most of my friends had gone off to college or circumstances caused our friendship to fade. I was lonely and desperate for someone, so I made the worst decision of my life, a choice that would change everything. And little did I know that instead of greatness, instead of saving the victim…I would become the victim who needed saving. My name is Abby and this is my story.

Adventure / Romance
Age Rating:

Chapter 1: Day 1

Spring sun shinning, I was sitting in the back of my van staring out at the waterfront in Edmonds WA. It was unusually warm for a WA spring; the sun was at its peak and I was enjoying the peaceful day laid out before me. The sailboats were out on the water and the birds were singing. It was a little glimpse of paradise.

I was slow moving today in getting to my list of items on my agenda. The first item on my list was to clean up the van; I had let it go as of late because my schedule had been so jam packed working horses as a side job.

I cleaned the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, made the bed, and lit some candles. The perk of living in a van is that the clean up is extremely easy. Once the van was cleaned to perfection I checked my list for my next item to check off, laundry pickup.

I don’t have a washer or dryer in a van so its essential to keep the laundry picked up and only wash the items that really need to be washed. So I put all the dirty clothes that cant be worn in the basket and put away the gently worn items in the bin.

Next up on my agenda was to re-dye my hair. I had bright red hair that I was a little bit obsessed with. The color was starting to fade but I had no desire to go sit in a salon, so I bought my favorite dye and went to work. Sectioning off the little individual strands, I began to dye my hair back to its glorious red color.

When I had finished applying the dye, I simply walked outside in my bathing suit and used my outdoor shower to rinse the dye away. I then dried my hair outside and styled it in my mirror. I looked at my reflection and once again knew who was looking back at me

They say there’s an art to losing yourself; I wouldn’t say it’s an art, but rather a general regression of knowing who you are. Its hard to find yourself, its easy to lose who you are.

Over the last 2 years I had my life flipped when I lost just about all of the friends I once held so close and now I found myself living in a van, no one around, and my red hair being the only thing that kept me grounded.

My phone chiming on my bed distracted me from my thoughts. I picked it up and I checked the screen to see who had sent me a text. My heart felt like it was going to explode; the sheer amount of anxiety mixed with hopefulness in a single moment of time exhausted me. I collapsed onto the bed and stared in disbelief at the text that was waiting to be viewed.

“Dutch”, an old name that I hadn’t seen in over a year illuminated on my screen, I never thought nor expected to see that name again. Unlike most of the friends or people I had lost over the year, Dominic or Dutch was different. The reason for our lack of communication stemmed from the immaturities he had in regards to relationships and lack of respect for people. He was a compulsive liar and when he grew angry, there was no stopping it. I dated him when I was 15, it ended half a year later with him cheating on me with girl he swore was just a friend. We obviously lost touch for a bit, then the relationship he was in ended and I got the long awaited apology I deserved. We remained friends for a long while and he continued to use me as a crutch, as a backup plan, and I grew tired of his games. So we fell out of touch and that was that. However the thing about Dutch is he knows me better than I know myself, he knows what I’m going say before I’m going to say it. He knows all there is to know about Abigail South. And the feelings were mutual; I had memorized everything about him. The way his touch felt compared to all the other people in the world, the way he smelled, I could tell you what he was thinking before he even knew he was thinking it. But the immaturities killed that friendship, the anger he didn’t know how to control brought too much fear and I gave up trying to predict it.

Dutch ended up moving back to Arizona where last I heard he was in an amazing relationship and things seemed to have worked out well for him. He (or maybe it was the girl he was seeing) had blocked me on all social media platforms, so I forgot about him, until now.

Now I lay on my back, chest still wet from my shower, breath quickened and unable to move my hand to unlock my phone.

“Just do it.” I pleaded with myself.

I opened my phone to the simplest of messages, “Hey Abs.”

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