Can't Believe That I Survived

Dear Mr. Ronald Joseph Radke,

My name is Anna Grace Elislee, and I'm currently 23 years of age. You have been an extremely big influence to me, more than you can imagine.  I've looked up to you ever since I was sixteen, and you've helped me get through some of the toughest events of my life; things that I haven't even talked about with my closest friends. I want to talk to someone who's been through a similar past, and recall those memories for the first time in 7 years, starting from the beginning. Even though I haven't met you, I want to tell you everything you've done for me.

My father left my mother and I when I was twelve because he couldn't pay for mom's alcohol and cigarettes, my school fees, food and rent. I know he didn't really love us anyway, so he left without hesitation. 
We were living in Vegas at the time, so the easiest way to get enough money to pay for rent and food was for my mother to work as a prostitute. 
Four years later and even though I was still underage, mom insisted I get a job on the streets, to make double the money. 
But I refused to become like my mother, selling her body to perverted old men. 
She eventually realized I was a waste of space, and kicked me out at 16.
I was happy to not look at her face ever again, but I was afraid.
I had no money. I had no family. I was completely alone.

So I started walking and walking, not knowing where to go.
I was alone, without food nor shelter for at least three nights.
One late afternoon, cold, tired and hungry, I was walking around the city, looking for a place to sleep for the night when I stopped outside an electronics store, and noticed the glow of one of those giant tvs behind the window. The news was on, so I decided to watch for a little while. There wasn't much on, just weather reports, sports results and boring political shit. One thing that caught my attention though, was a reporter talking about some band in Vegas. I was intrigued. 

The camera turned, and the most beautiful face I'd seen in my life appeared on the screen. My heart skipped a beat and my eyes were as wide as plates as he introduced himself.

He was Ronnie Radke, the lead singer in the band Escape The Fate.

I smile as I read the last paragraphs of the neatly written letter over and over again.
I start to read them once more, but am interrupted by the sound of my barred cell door screeching open. 
'Dinner in five! Radke!' the buff security guard calls from the doorway impatiently.
I sigh quietly, my smile fading. I fold the letter and insert it back into its unique, bright red envelope, place it under my pillow, and walk quietly out the door.

                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'What's on the menu tonight, Martha?' I ask the slightly bearded lady on the other side of the glass in a sarcastic tone, as I shift slowly to the front of the line where my long awaited food sits. 'Roast beef? Turkey? Oh wait, I forgot, it's grilled salmon night, isn't it?'

She glares at me, spooning mush from a big steel pot onto a plate. 'Watch it, Radke.' she hisses, clearly remembering day one.

'Don't push your luck, err-'
'Radke.' I say, in a robotic tone.
'Well, Radke, this is all you'll be getting in your time here. So you better enjoy it.' 'The Dinner Lady' Martha, states as she slops the mush onto a plate.
'So, no ribs on the menu?'
'WHAT did I just say?'
'Just makin' sure.'

I glare back at her, before turning on my heel and walking away to find an unoccupied table. 

As I eat my meal slowly, I take in the unfamiliar scenery that will become my home for the next year or so.
An airy rectangular room scattered with heavy tables and chairs, blacks, whites, Mexicans and Asians litter the dirty yet polished floor. Pasty white walls enclose the hundreds of men while high, barred windows block any attemped escapes. Tall concrete poles rise from the floor to the ceiling, and security guards stand at every corner.

What did you do to end up in this dump?

I shake the memories out of my head, and slowly let my mind wander.
Your first fan-letter, and you've been here how long? Three days? Un-fucking-believable. How could anybody know you're here anyway? Oh yeah, because you're a fucking criminal. It was all over the news. You would've thought dad had at least sent you something though, or even-
My thoughts are erased from my brain as I feel a sudden lurch in my stomach.
I sprint to the nearest trash can and uncontrolably throw up whatever I had eaten today, which wasn't a lot.
Damn withdrawal.
                                  
                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After making a scene in the dinner hall, having security escort me to my drug counsellor and then having to talk about my withdrawal symptoms for an hour, I am finally let back to my cell.

The uncomfortable bed strains under my weight as I slump into its stiff white sheets.
I curl up into a tight ball and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to soothe my throbbing headache.
You don't get any medication, why? Because you're at risk of fucking addiction. Again. 

My eyelids slowly begin to weigh themselves down, and I soon fall into an uneasy sleep.
Another day down, another six hundred to go.