• Stay calm.
    Breathe.
    I’m sitting in a classroom filled with preps, jocks, nerds, and wannabe gangsters.
    It’s revolting, monstrous. Everybody’s a clone here. Blech...

    The lyrics and music of Insane Clown Posse’s songs pound in my ears and my mind. From my iPod, in my pocket on the inside of my purple and lace Tripp corset top.

    How am I hiding the cord and ear buds? Easy with long blonde color streaked hair like mine. Reaching to my lower back, blue, purple, red and black are streaked randomly. My semi-long bangs hide my left eye, that’s intricately adorned with tribal art, just like the other one.

    My combat boots shake with anticipation to walk to my truck and get out of this hell that every child is forced to go through in hopes of getting a higher education. Yeah, right. The chains on my black Tripp pants with white stitching clink softly under my desk.

    I fiddle with the choker at the base of my neck. It’s a black Hatchet man dangling from a leather band resembling a collar at the hollow of my throat. Leash sold separately.

    The bell rings and everyone turns on their phones, grabbing their little pink purses and dainty binders. I grab my black messenger bag with ICP insignia and heading out of class. The teacher starts to say something, I look up at her and she stops talking, I never stop walking.

    I weave through the crowd of gossiping preps and people discussing the night’s hippest party. Nobody talks to me. I’m the freaky new girl.
    I prefer it that way.

    When I get to my truck, six preps have asked me to join this club or donate to that organization. I never say a word; just keep walking, glaring at my surroundings.

    Across the parking lot I see him. It’s a Goth guy! Wow, never thought I’d see that here. This hick town has someone worth my time and effort. I shake my head and forget about it, it must have been a wager in a bet.

    Climbing in my black ’99 Dodge truck, V8 Magnum, I plug my iPod into the dash stereo. Turning the key my baby revs to life, making my body vibrate. The music blasts through the speakers, just the song I needed, “******** the World,” Amazing Jackel Brothers, track 12.

    When I exit the parking lot, leaving that wretched prison behind, I peel out, I can’t help it. It’s just so fun to do it. I pass all the shiny sports cars, Escalades, and other assorted rich snob vehicles.

    Pulling into my driveway, I realize that my new house looks like one that would be on a children’s book. That’s funny. Considering we’re nothing like a happy family or have a happy ending like one.

    In the kitchen, there’s a note on the stainless steel fridge.
    I had some errands to do after work. Here’s some money for some food.

    No signature, no “I love you!” Nothing, it’s just the bare minimum need-to-know-information. I take the $20 and order some pizza. I order two large, one cheese and a supreme. Dad won’t eat them, like I care. He can cook. At least he’ll do something today.

    I’ve got 30 minutes, so I head to my room. It’s my only escape.
    My room is very different. As well as not done. A half finished black angel stares at me when I open the door. My paints are scattered, with my dirty paintbrushes. There’s a partially finished moon filled night scene with a graveyard.

    My bed rests against the wall that’s not begun transformation. It’s a queen-size with a black comforter, red Hatchet man in the center. I have a lot of hatchet man stuff. It’s an awesome thing, what can I say?

    I toss the messenger bag on the black etched desk next to my computer. I slide my hand under my pillow, grabbing the white leather journal kept shut with a white chain and lock. I take the key from behind the hatchet man on the collar.

    I open it and begin to write. Thoughts, sights, sounds, various ways the government has developed to torture young minds. After I can’t think of anymore, I get on the internet.

    My life is rather pathetic huh? I go to school, home, order delivery pizza, and write in a journal, and surf on the internet. I’m not complaining though. I don’t have to deal with a whole lot of people. Only the very few that actually talk to me. It’s just mom and some teachers. That’s it.

    When the pizza comes I pay the guy at the door and tell him to keep the eight dollars that was supposed to be change. He seemed pretty happy about it.

    The box goes in the kitchen on the table, few slices on a plate and back to my unfinished room. Now it’s time to paint.

    I slip on my smock and dip the brush in a black paint can, making the angel’s wings form on my wall, hunched over his shoulders and around his legs, like he’s protecting himself or hiding. His eyes that I painted days ago are a bright piercing blue. His hair is blonde, unlike all the other dark angels you see. But I don’t care. He’s my creation and I intend to do with him what I like.

    A few hours pass and I’m half way done with a wing, putting scratches here for highlights and little details there. A knock on my door makes me jump, spilling some of the dirty water on the canvas covered floor. Of course the water goes straight through to the carpet beneath.

    “What do you want?” I blurt out angrily. This will take forever to get out of the carpet. s**t.
    “It’s dad.”
    “Really? I thought you were just a polite rapist. What do you want?” I say louder.
    “Just thought I’d let you know I was home, sweetie.” He says like any good father should. It makes me sick.
    “Good. I’m glad you’re alive.” I retort without emotion.
    “Is there any food?”
    “It’s on the table in the kitchen.”
    “You mean the pizza?”
    “What else is there to eat in there, the black cheese in the drawer?”
    “I thought you could fix me something.”
    “Fat chance, I’m painting.”
    “About those, I don’t like them. I don’t want you painting stuff like that.”
    “Well then,” I start, glaring at the door, “you can just stay out of my room for all I care. Not like there’s anything in here for you anyway!”
    “That wasn’t very nice.” He chides through the door. I hear him try to turn the doorknob, the metal springs being compressed.
    “I learned it from you, dear father.” I spit at him.

    There’s no response from him, the sounds from the door stopping abruptly. There’s just a shuffling of the feet down the stairs.

    I only talk to him because I’ll go to a military academy if I don’t, mother’s orders. Other than that, I never say a word to him. He stays out of my room because he hates my clothes everywhere and the morbid paintings on the walls. I like my paintings. Of course, they did come from my head and I’m bringing them to life, in a manner of speaking.

    Later that night, I’m asleep in my comfy bed. I may look like I’m peaceful on the outside, but in my head, I’m not.

    Images flash by. I hear screams, people calling for help. People are calling out for me. People I can’t get to. People I know from my old house. Some that are long gone and buried six feet deep. They’re alive and wanting me to help them cross over.

    I snap my eyes open at the buzz of my alarm clock. Making my groggy head throb with each blast of the buzzer, too many paint fumes last night.
    Sweat is covering my body, another nightmare.
    6:00 a.m.
    I roll out of bed and take a shower, scrubbing away the sweat and hopefully the nightmares that haunt me every other night.

    Afterwards, I get dressed in today’s monstrosity, as dad puts it. White Tripp pants, black chains and a black tank top with a white button-up over shirt, just the right balance of light and dark, mother would be proud. A black hatchet man on the back, joker’s cards patches on the front and long sleeves. My hair, parted on the right side. My jewelry consists of a hatchet man choker, and skull earrings. Combat boots on my feet and the edgy liquid eyeliner art at the corner of my eyes.

    Overall, I look kind of scary. But I see that as a good thing. The people, who are scared of you because of the way you look, aren’t worth your time. Apparently in this small town, there’s nobody worth it here.