Her Own Worst Enemy

Real eyes realize real lies.

The bell rings, signalling the end of the school day. I lift my head up. The dried tears on my cheeks renew the emotions from the day.

I stand up, clearly too quickly, because my vision blacks out for a second, and I'm extremely dizzy. I freeze for a second until all my senses come back to me. I unlatch the stall door and trudge out. I walk towards the exit, pausing as I pass the mirror.

God, look at me. I'm so pathetic, I understand why no one likes me. Scrawny body, with no shape to it. Black makeup streaking down my cheeks. Dark brown hair teased up in all the wrong places, from running my fingers through the same sections too many times.

I pace into a stall, pulling a section of toilet paper off. I fold it over a few times, and then drag it across the skin under my eyes, wiping off the smeared makeup. I try my best to straighten out my hair, but there isn't much that I can do.

I hear students rushing through the hallway. They're all so eager to get home, when I absolutely dread this more than anything. I'm emotionally hurt at school, and physically hurt at home. Pick your poison, I guess.

I wait until the noise dies down and then head out into the hallway. I work my way to the classroom, I'm alone except for the janitor at the end of the hall.

His uniform is very baggy, as if he's just gone through a major weight loss. He has a layer of black hair on the the top of his head, but it's receding at all the edges. He has a goatee that's a blinding shade of white.

I walk into the classroom and notice Foster sitting behind his desk.

"You're still here? I thought you left at first break."

Oh yeah, I forgot that I ditched class for most of the day. I was too busy being a lonely, self centred bitch.

"No, I was actually helping out in the primary classrooms."

"That's so nice of you!"

I smile at him. I never thought I'd be called nice, and a skank, with in a span of four hours. I walk over to my desk to stack my chair.

"Storm, may I ask you something?"

I don't know what to say, because nothing good ever comes from this question. But no matter the outcome, I nod.

"What's on your arm?"

I look down, and my sleeves are pulled up over my elbows.