Paper Dolls
Runaway...
I can’t start a conversation, let alone the story of who I am, without clarifying who I am not.
I am not a runaway.
I’m an adventurer and a survivor. I’m an explorer... and I’ve been exploring the United States for eight years. I’ve been to every state and lived in many, working full time since I was 14. It’s always been kind of fun, being on my own and not having to answer to anyone but myself...
Cause, let’s face it, I’m always alone.
I wasn’t an army brat, or the child of some businessman who was always on the move. I wasn’t accompanied by any adult, guardian... parent...
Just me, my backpack full of essentials and the open road... or train, really since buying a car was never an option. It was a superfluous expense anyhow, well, so were train tickets... I snuck on every one of those trains... usually, they were cargo trains that I snuck onto during loading, whether or not I knew where it was going. That’s me though... Fall asleep on a train, next to boxes of iPods or stereos or produce, and surprise! I wake up in a foreign land... well, foreign state anyhow. Fuck, I never said I was Christopher Columbus.
I’ve always been a bit of a drifter... my brother was too.
I don’t remember my mother at all... When I was 2 and my older brother was 6, she ran away from our abusive father, leaving us to fend for ourselves.
Then, my older brother disappeared when I was 13 years old. Our father had always been a drunk who used to put my brother, Elias, into the hospital on an almost constant basis... except, because he needed the aid from the state (Massachusetts at the time), Elias never got to actually go to the hospital because they’d know my father was abusing him and then we’d be taken away. When my brother was 17, and I was only thirteen, he left home. He packed up a bag, took his signed Tre Cool drumsticks, stole a shitload of cash from our father, and left. Just like that.
Just like that, my best friend and the person I looked up to the most, was out of my life forever... and I never saw or heard from him again.
For the next 8 months our father turned his rage, hate and violence (magnified by the stolen cash) out on me, beating the shit out of me. You’d be surprised how much a 13 year old can bleed...
Finally I realized something... If I could put up with those beatings then, fuck, I was certainly strong enough to make it on my own.
So, just like my mother and brother, I packed a bag and left and decided no matter what, I’d never look back.
I got to New York and met up with a girl, Sasha, who knew a guy that made nearly flawless fake IDs and suddenly 14 year old Michelle Stephanie Mallin was 18 year old Scarlet Anne Baker, actually that name suited me better anyhow.
Her guy even provided me with the birth certificate and social security card for this girl, Scarlet, who died three months before... Even better, Scarlet had her license. I’m assuming she wasn’t a very good driver though, cause she was killed when she crashing into a median on the highway going 80+ MPH.
After a month or two in New York with Sasha taking care of me, I moved to Trenton NJ and started working 40+ hours for minimum wage wherever I could. That was a big adjustment for a 14 year old and let me tell you, it sucked.
But eventually I took up photography and art and started working for tattoo parlors as a receptionist, designer of wall tattoos and taking pictures of the finished (an astounding) products. I also worked for clubs as a graphic artist for advertisement of bands and events.
...Okay, I guess I am technically a ‘runaway’, but that’s such a negative word! When I hear it, I think of some kid who get’s in a fight with his mom cause she wants him to be home by 10, so he leaves for a week or two... or an escaped convict, or some kid who needs attention, or someone who runs off with their junkie friends to tie off their veins in some alley.
I’m none of those things! I’m Scar Baker for fucks sake, and my name reflects everything I went through.
I’m a renegade but, overall, I’m a survivor.
I am not a runaway.
I’m an adventurer and a survivor. I’m an explorer... and I’ve been exploring the United States for eight years. I’ve been to every state and lived in many, working full time since I was 14. It’s always been kind of fun, being on my own and not having to answer to anyone but myself...
Cause, let’s face it, I’m always alone.
I wasn’t an army brat, or the child of some businessman who was always on the move. I wasn’t accompanied by any adult, guardian... parent...
Just me, my backpack full of essentials and the open road... or train, really since buying a car was never an option. It was a superfluous expense anyhow, well, so were train tickets... I snuck on every one of those trains... usually, they were cargo trains that I snuck onto during loading, whether or not I knew where it was going. That’s me though... Fall asleep on a train, next to boxes of iPods or stereos or produce, and surprise! I wake up in a foreign land... well, foreign state anyhow. Fuck, I never said I was Christopher Columbus.
I’ve always been a bit of a drifter... my brother was too.
I don’t remember my mother at all... When I was 2 and my older brother was 6, she ran away from our abusive father, leaving us to fend for ourselves.
Then, my older brother disappeared when I was 13 years old. Our father had always been a drunk who used to put my brother, Elias, into the hospital on an almost constant basis... except, because he needed the aid from the state (Massachusetts at the time), Elias never got to actually go to the hospital because they’d know my father was abusing him and then we’d be taken away. When my brother was 17, and I was only thirteen, he left home. He packed up a bag, took his signed Tre Cool drumsticks, stole a shitload of cash from our father, and left. Just like that.
Just like that, my best friend and the person I looked up to the most, was out of my life forever... and I never saw or heard from him again.
For the next 8 months our father turned his rage, hate and violence (magnified by the stolen cash) out on me, beating the shit out of me. You’d be surprised how much a 13 year old can bleed...
Finally I realized something... If I could put up with those beatings then, fuck, I was certainly strong enough to make it on my own.
So, just like my mother and brother, I packed a bag and left and decided no matter what, I’d never look back.
I got to New York and met up with a girl, Sasha, who knew a guy that made nearly flawless fake IDs and suddenly 14 year old Michelle Stephanie Mallin was 18 year old Scarlet Anne Baker, actually that name suited me better anyhow.
Her guy even provided me with the birth certificate and social security card for this girl, Scarlet, who died three months before... Even better, Scarlet had her license. I’m assuming she wasn’t a very good driver though, cause she was killed when she crashing into a median on the highway going 80+ MPH.
After a month or two in New York with Sasha taking care of me, I moved to Trenton NJ and started working 40+ hours for minimum wage wherever I could. That was a big adjustment for a 14 year old and let me tell you, it sucked.
But eventually I took up photography and art and started working for tattoo parlors as a receptionist, designer of wall tattoos and taking pictures of the finished (an astounding) products. I also worked for clubs as a graphic artist for advertisement of bands and events.
...Okay, I guess I am technically a ‘runaway’, but that’s such a negative word! When I hear it, I think of some kid who get’s in a fight with his mom cause she wants him to be home by 10, so he leaves for a week or two... or an escaped convict, or some kid who needs attention, or someone who runs off with their junkie friends to tie off their veins in some alley.
I’m none of those things! I’m Scar Baker for fucks sake, and my name reflects everything I went through.
I’m a renegade but, overall, I’m a survivor.