The Diary of the Lovely Kelsey Tate

The name is Kelsey Tate. I know what you’re thinking, just another popular, cheerleader bitch with a tiny ass from high school. Well, I certainly wasn’t a cheerleader or popular by any means (and my ass--definitely not tiny), but the bitch part is still up in the air. Now, you must be wondering what all of this bullshit is about and why you should give a single fuck about my unpopular, non-cheerleading, definitely bitchy ass. Well, ok you impatient motherfucker, I’ll get right to the point this time. So, the name is Kelsey Tate and I was murdered. I know what you’re thinking, Oh great, another story about a murdered girl. Well, thank you for your lack of enthusiasm, it’s just so refreshing, but I’d like to think my story is a little different from your average murdered girl story, thank you very much. So, as I said, I was unliked in high school, but that didn’t matter to me very much because that wasn’t my main priority. My main priority was my line of work, which I was very well liked in. You see, I didn’t even live to be eighteen years old, but throw a little makeup on me and I could pass for much older.
Before I dive into my profession, let me give a little backstory on what makes me, me. My deadbeat father walked out on my mother shortly after I was conceived and my mother died shortly after I was born. I lived with my dead mother’s parents for more than half of my life, until they bit the dust when I was about ten. After that I was shoved into the system, bouncing around from house to house, living with one set of drunk or high foster parents after the next. Finally, after six years of waiting and hating my fucking life I met someone, he promised to take care of me and help me succeed in life, as long as I helped him, that is. Dying to escape the system, I agreed to help him with whatever he needed as long as he could get me the fuck out. He seemed alright, at first. I mean, at least I was able to get my own bed and have my own room after sleeping on different floors for the past six years of my life.
This man took me in and showed me the ways of his trade. He would mostly work at the stove and I would deliver his product to those who wanted it, or should I say needed it. The reason he sent me, a young girl to be his runner, was because the pigs would never suspect me. Let’s just say that to him I was essential, I ensured that his business could go on without interruptions or obstacles. I would walk right past the cops with my hands in my pockets, a big innocent smile, a quick “Hi, how are you,” and fists full of crack rocks and no one would ever bat an eye. I was never caught.
But, as some of you may know, drug running can get exhausting and time consuming. It was fun at the beginning I guess, but when it gets to the point where you’re being woken up at three o’clock in the morning to deliver some product when you gotta catch a school bus at six, it really puts a damper on your day. So, I tried to back out of the deal. I thought he’d be cool with it, considering I was doing it for almost two years and I was starting to look older and less innocent. Well, news flash, I was wrong. He was definitely not cool with it. In fact, he was so not cool with it that he picked up his AK, touched the barrel between my eyes and fired one precision shot. And here I am, on the other side of the hell-hole we call life, watching his stupid ass get locked up for one hundred and fifty years, not just for my homicide, but for cooking crack too. So, you tell me, who’s the one who really lost here?