It's just a scratch!

Socks!!!

Hi.
Why do people even say hi.
Why do they not say lo or pronounce it like: high.
Anyway, hi, I mean lo or..- Ughhhh
My name is Lucia Martin and this is the story of how I died. You are all probably wondering what the hell is going on, that was what I was like at first. Here is my story and as you can guess it started at the first day of high school.

Lucia's POV:
"MOOOOM!!!" I screamed down the stairs as my mom peered up at me, startled, saying "Yes darling," and calmly placing her hands on her hips, as always.
I was in such a rush for my first day of school that I completely forgot to even think about socks. I ran out of my room and perched myself over the banister almost as if I was about to fall, "Do you know where the hel... Heck! Are my socks?"
I scrambled every where, trying to find where these retched, bloody socks were hiding. I mean how hard is it to loose a pair of bright, neon, sparkly, pink socks? Ugh, I wish life was so much easier. I sighed, hoping that karma was on my side for once. "Lucia! I found them!" My mom called from a distance with a little bit of a mischievous tone in her voice. I ran downstairs to retrieve my 'lucky' socks but they were cut up into tiny pieces and being stuck on to a a sheet of card. No doubt about it, this was the handy work of my little sister, Hanna. Hanna is a 3 year old, spoiled brat who thinks she can get away with murder if it's my mom who's doing the punishing.
(Well my dad left when I was 10 anyway so it's only her doing the punishing.)
Where as me, on the other hand, will be grounded for like a month. I mean it's not like I don't have friends, pffft, I have tons of friends... Ehhh, like Molly down the road, I mean, I guess, she's 7 but that still counts, right?
I moved to Virginia, USA, last week from England and before you ask that question, no, I do not have an accent.

I dunno why but I think I just never really picked it up as a kid. I'm kinda grateful that I don't have one though because if I did well... That's a whole new story.
I suppose that I did have 1 friend back home, her name was Emily. She and I would skip lunch at school and head straight for the music room to play. She would bang the drums and I would smash the guitar (electric.) I think that was another reason why I got bullied. I am quite punk rock, I guess, but with a hint of hipster to add a bit of flare (as you can already tell by the pink socks.) I wanna be different, I hate being basic. I wanna stand out from the crowd and just be myself, but school makes that so difficult. My definition of school in an acrostic poem-

•S- suckers who think they are popular
•C- cool people who think they own the world
•H- hotties, the ones which the guys go crazy for, they literally make you stop and stare in a hallway
•O- offensive, people who just give you the look and what I mean by 'the look' is- stare you up and down until they lift their upper lip into a kind of curve which also lifts their nose. This is what I call the pig snort
•O- opportunity for people who have set themselves a career path with a bright further ahead of them (so definitely not me then)
•L- loser, The perfect definition of yours truly- Lucia.

I am fricking dreading today, I want things to be normal, so I am gonna try my best to fit in,even if it means not wearing my sparkly, pinks socks. All though, I don't think I really have a choice in that matter.
Instead of the original socks I was planning to wear, I just slipped on a basic pair of white ones. In America, it's really different. For starters I don't need to wear a uniform which is great! But I think I will begin to hate it, with other people making fun of someone just because of their clothing, it sounds stupid but it actually happens.

My outfit consists of a Nirvana tank top, ripped skinny jeans, black Doc Martins for shoes, black felt boater hat, and an AC/DC wrist band.

All topped off with incredibly perfect wings on my eyelids done with my favourite eyeliner. (Well, not perfect, one of them is slightly different but you would never be able to tell.) I stared at myself in the mirror. My fair hair was loose with my hat resting on the top of my head, my eyes looked dark but the blue still shined brightly, my legs were normal in a sense of not being ridiculously skinny or terribly fat, my shoes made me look taller. This was me. This is my style. I was happy, for a while at least.