The Unlucky One

Chapter 4

I quietly shut my bathroom door and stepped into my bedroom, carefully trying not to wake up the beast. Aka, my mother.

Today was my first day of senior year, and I was a lot more nervous than I imagined I'd be. After everything that's happened, I just don't feel up for it. I don't see the use in getting an education... when I should be out searching for Emma.

From excessive thinking my legs became week and gave out from under me, and I shuffled into my bed. I shook my head as my eyes filled with tears for the thousandth time over the last few weeks. I wasn't going to let myself cry, not on the first day. I was so tired of crying, tired of cooping myself up in my room and doing nothing but call the police. I've called them at least a dozen times since the grocery store in incident, asking about any leads they may have picked up on.

To my luck, nothing has happened. The odd thing is, only I have made calls to the police. My mother hasn't done anything, and even worse than myself, she hasn't left the house in three weeks. I've left to talk to the police down at the station, to get food or supplies that were needed, or to drive around town aimlessly. I mostly did that hoping I'd see a little blonde haired girl walking around town. That never happened.

I inhaled deeply and wiped my eyes of any stray tears, bending down and tying my converse. I walked up to my vanity and examined my outfit, which had little to no planning put into it.

I wore bright blue shorts, a black tank top and of course, my converse. I ran my hands through my straight hair, shaking it a bit to add some volume. I groaned, seeing that the makeup I had applied to cover the bags under my eyes was no help. I looked like a zombie, and felt like one too.

I dismissed any negative thoughts about myself by standing upright quickly, slinging on a grey cardigan to finish my look. I placed the strap of my brown bag on my shoulder, grabbing my keys and phone and exiting my room.

With practice I had learned which steps on our stairs were squeaky, and which ones were quiet. I made my way downstairs, seeing that my mom slept on the couch. Three bottles of wine were scattered around her unconscious body, one spilt on the table and leaving a mess. I silently thanked God, if there actually was one, that I was able to avoid another argument with my mom.

I exited the house, slowly shutting the door to make the least amount of noise possible. I did this quietly, even though the likelihood of her rising from that couch at all for the rest of the day was incredibly slim.

I got into the car and started it, pulling out of the driveway and making my way to school. My hands tightened around the wheel at the thought of school. I never was a fan of attending, for certain reasons. I absolutely loved learning new things, and I even thought that homework wasn't that bad. I didn't mind sitting in a class and quietly doing my work, or taking notes. I didn't even mind as much as sitting for an entire period, listening to someone preach their subject. I only dislike two things.

The first thing I cannot stand: The high school goers who believe that being at the top of their school is the greatest achievement ever. The people that don't realize that after graduation, that crown you got for most beers chugged, or the sash you got for homecoming queen, or the people you've beaten up just for fun, doesn't matter anymore. These people are also known as your classic bullies/popular students.

The second thing I cannot stand: Teachers who don't want to be there. I get it, you have to pay your rent. What I don't get is, why teach if you don't like it? Do something else! I cannot stand when a teacher doesn't give a shit. That makes everyone else in the room not give a shit. Do your job! The thing you got a masters in college for? The one thing you're asked to do! Teach! When teachers are passionate about a subject, and try their best to hold their class's attention, it makes me happy. It also makes me want to try my absolute best to understand the point they're trying to get across to us.