Working Girl Read Online Free

preparations and head into the kitchen to see what I can scrounge to fill my stomach. As if on cue, it growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten much today, which is not unlike any other day. But instead of making it into the kitchen unscathed, I hear a crash just as I reach the door.
    I can already guess what might be waiting for me on the other side, and opening the door, I see that I’m right. One of the younger, newer girls lies in a heap near the counter, still with the belt around her arm, the needle hanging precariously from her skin. A normal person would probably be frightened by the sight, but for me it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Despite my lack of reaction, it still bothers me that these girls have such a disregard for their lives.
    I go to her, bending down and removing the needle while unfastening the belt. She moans and her eyes roll in the back of her head. I try to remember her name, but I can’t for the life of me think of it, but I do know that she’s so new that this is her first stay at Menses Mansion. Obviously she’s a real winner. Big Earl sure can pick ’em.
    I try to rouse her, slapping her face until she finally manages to open her eyes and they loosely focus on me. “What’s your name?” I ask dryly.
    “Peaches.”
    Sure it is. “All right, Peaches. I know you’re new, and probably not used to rules, but around here we have them. This isn’t the street.” She looks up at me, confused, like she can’t believe I’m lecturing her. “If you want to get high, at least have the decency to do it in your own room.” I hand her the spoon and lighter that she’s used to cook whatever it is she’s shot into her arm. “You can keep these.”
    She continues to stare at me, and I stare right back. I may not want anything to do with this life, but this life has hardened me. I’ve seen it all. There’s only one thing that scares me, but since it seemingly only exists in the books I read I don’t worry too much about it.
    Truth is, I’m scared of love.

KILLING TIME IN THE LIBRARY seems like it could be fun, though it’d probably be way better if I wasn’t by myself and I had someone to study with.
    Casting a glance over at the table next to me, I watch enviously as two girls giggle, pretending to be looking in their textbooks. I’m jealous of their ability to live a carefree life. Certainly it was something I’ve never known, and at times like this, I question if I ever will.
    One of the girls catches me staring and shoots daggers with her eyes in my direction before leaning across the table and whispering in the other girl’s ear. They laugh again, and I know damn well that they’re talking about me. It’s a curse wherever I go—for some reason, bitches just love to talk shit about me. I swear I have “Daughter of a Whore” tattooed on my forehead or something. Chrissy tries to say that it’s because they’re all jealous of me, but I don’t buy it. I’m just a girl.
    My struggles with peers has been with me from an early age. It started sometime in kindergarten or first grade, round about the time I missed the bus and Momma couldn’t be reached to come get me. My friend’s mom was a volunteer at the school and offered to give me a ride home. The principal gave her the address and I can remember seeing the look on her face.
    Scared.
    Once we got to the house, it was very apparent that I was growing up across from a brothel, and wouldn’t you know it, the very next day, everyone else stopped talking to Chrissy and me. I can only assume it was because their mothers instructed them to keep their distance. My heart broke every day that year, because I didn’t understand why no one wanted to be my friend. But the older I got, the worse it got, and the more I understood.
    Shit came to a peak in high school though. Teenagers are ruthless, and it didn’t take me long to develop a disdain for that hellhole. Guys liked to try to bait us, acting like they were interested in us only