To most people when they look up at the sky, it's usually blue. When I look up at the sky, it's gray. The deep blue sky usually means that they're going to have a great day, without any care in the world. But to me, my sky is always gray. I've never had a blue sky day. Because when you have a blue sky day, you're happy, but since I'm never happy, and it always seems like I'm stuck in own hell, my skies are never blue, but gray. Always.

I once had my fairy tale, but my castle came crashing down, so now I'm stuck here.

I turned my back on the window, silently cursing the gray sky. I glanced around my new room: the white walls, empty closet, and the broken window that I now hated. Another house, another city, another life.

My father never liked to stay in one place. He demanded, more like forced, us to move around to a new place every so often. He would always claim to me in a drunken matter as I would load up the boxes into my truck, that he just wanted new scenery. But I knew behind his drunk slurring that he was just worried that the police station at where he worked would start doing regular screenings of the staff. Of course it would never happen, but sometimes things can't be helped.

He was a heavy alcoholic, getting drunk usually every night of the week. Coming home drunk and upset, my father would often grumble about the jackasses he worked with or about how the price of a six-pack was too much for his paycheck. Still, it never stopped the drinking, or the swearing, or his demanding attitude. I would often lay low, hidden in my room with the door locked, until he cooled down for the evening before making my escape through the rest of the house. I usually got the punches and slaps of him when he was too drunk to function or when I didn't get dinner onto the table fast enough. Like I said, some things just can't be helped. Especially in my father's case.

"KELSEY! GET YOUR UNGRATEFUL ASS DOWN HERE NOW!"

I heard my father's screaming right through the floor of our house, or should I say fire house. We had moved into not a usual house, but Tulsa Oklahoma's old run-down, beat up fire station. My father loved fixer-uppers, but they never did get anywhere with him passed out on the couch.

You couldn't even tell that this place even was a fire house, unless you counted the fire escape outside my window and the hole in the floor in the hallway where the old fire pole is. With the place's old red bricks cracked and not properly installed, the cracked sidewalk and steps outside, the dead flower beds and the fact that the roof was in shingles told you that the place was not well kept. Like I said, something can't be helped.

I raced down the stairs, and came across my father, standing right at the bottom of the steps, waiting for me. His dark brown hair, like mine, was untidy and in his face. He was still in his police uniform, right with the captain's badge on the front, where it should be but on someone else's chest. I could tell that he was drunk, from his blood shot green eyes and the smell but also from the fact that he was swaying slightly on his feet. I stopped about halfway down the stair-well, looking at him.

"Yes dad?" I said bravely and confidently. I wasn't scared of my father, like most people would think if they knew. I knew if I was strong enough and stayed mostly out of his way, not much harm would come to me.

My father didn't move, just stared at me, before speaking again, his words slurry. "I'm going to the bar. The workers will be here at. Stay here or you'll get it." I nodded at him, and watched as he turned around and walked through the living room. I knew he was gone when I heard the front door slam with a loud bam.

I sighed, grateful that he hadn't taken my truck. Most of the time when he took it on his usual pursuit for the local bar the windshield would get cracked or the tires would be slashed and ruined when he tried to drive it home. I soon knew more about cars then the local mechanic because I would make sure he would double check everything. If my car broke down, it would be like cutting off my leg. I usually had to work at least two jobs to pay the bills and to support my dad's recreational drinking habits, which reminded me of the fact that I needed to find a job, or else we'd be getting calls from the bill collectors. I don't even remember the last time that happened, but I know I was sore and limping for a long time.

I glanced at my clock, which read 10:00. The roofers should be here soon, and then I would have some time for myself. My father didn't come home from the bar for at least five hours, more when the beer is priced lower. I turned around on the stairs and proceeded back up to my room, looking for a hairbrush. When I finally found one, I brushed my hair in the reflection of the broken glass. My dark brown hair was finally staying straight since I had fixed it to be that way last night after my shower. My hair was naturally curly and frizzy, so the only way I thought it looked good was straight. It fell about five inches past my shoulders, but not that far down my back. I set the hairbrush down and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was startled by the coldness of my usually bright brown eyes, that where shadowed by something I hadn't noticed before. A small, black bruise was surrounding my left eye, and it was defiantly noticeable. I grabbed my foundation out of my bag and set for work. I can't even remember how I got the stupid bruise anyway. Finally when my work was done, my eye looked normal, but just a bit swollen. Not bad for foundation.

I decided that I had spent enough time making myself presentable, and that I needed to get some work done. First off, I had to find the gas station. My poor truck was almost running on empty. Poor, poor truck. I sighed and grabbed a handful of coins off my dresser, hoping it would be enough for at least a few drops of gas. My low supply of money only meant that I needed to find a new job, in a strange new city.

Like I said, some things can't be helped.

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Hey guys!

I'm back. I usually write for NCIS, and I'm of course busy writing and not getting nearly enough sleep thinking about plot lines 

But I wanted to try out writing for The Outsiders, and my sister Sarah had a great plot, but can't write for shit. So that's where I come in.

Please review as you think you need to.

-Ashley and Sarah