Chad Jones: the Bad

I sit on the porch swing, my back, as curved as a boomerang. I can watch the road and everything that past my home if you can even call it a home.

The cold November wind flies past me, cutting my cheeks with its claws of ice, and so I quickly zip up my hoodie. I hate wearing my hoodie, I hate having to leave my room because Mom and her boyfriend are arguing on the phone.

I hate life.

My phone buzzes, which I take out and unlock the screen. It’s Becca.