Short Stories

One

Genre: Horror/Thriller
Warning: this story contains graphic scenes. Not for the sensitive.

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Lucy Hallo.
A girl born with a silver spoon crammed into her mouth.
Before, it was a bronze fork lying on the ground, a dirty thing. Something nobody wanted to pick up.
But her father did.

Lucy's father picked up that dirty fork, and cleaned it up. He polished it until it was all new and shiny.
He eventually traded in that fork for a silver spoon, just because he could afford it.

Then the spoon was dropped because her father had passed, but caught by his wife, Lucy Hallo's mother.

His wife spoiled the young daughter who helped her mother shape that spoon into a forming golden knife. That daughter is Lucy Hallo, who would use the knife that would stab into the very heart of my social existence.

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She walked the halls with confidence, or as I call it, the Victoria's Secret photo shoot.
She and her two friends, who were trailing behind her every step, looked absolutely disturbing, yet it was intriguing to look at. You couldn't look away.

Lucy was wearing gold earrings and bracelets, her dyed deep red hair bounced with every step as it hung over her shoulders and extended to her hips.

Her eyes blazed with a deep green and crude behaviour as her denim high-waisted shorts were obviously too tight on her, causing her stomach a bloated muffin look.

Her little minion ducks followed her style with different colour schemes, and better, average bodies.

Since Lucy had over flowing amounts of money, she had almost unlimited amounts of food so she always seemed to be cramming her face.
The latest gossip was that Lucy didn't believe in 'cheating life' so she never got liposuction, but apparently implants and hair extensions don't count.

Her hurtful words, which were little, still infuriated me.
Her petty comments to her followers, always made them giggle, but you could always spot the uneasiness of their expressions.

On common sites, such as Twitter or Instagram, I watch over day and night as she puts down my friends, but most of the time, me.
Simple photos of me can somehow alter into a 'my god what happened to her face' comment.

I held my books closely to my chest, more closely than a regular day because I had discovered I'd taken my diary instead of my social textbook because of the similar sizes.

I write just to help cope. To cope with everything in life. I rant on and on about certain facts or just have a discussion with myself in my unlocked diary.

"Hey, friend. Nice to see you again," Lucy mocks as the lockers shudder beside me from her shoulder's hard impact. I shudder from our last encounter.

"I've been thinking about what my next post will be on Instagram..." She trailed off, hoping I would reply.

She pushed her way to the locker next to mine, which I was trying to open for the third time. I couldn't get the combination right with her ego radiating off of her and causing waves of nausea to hit my stomach. This girl made me too nervous.

Come on, come on!

I opened my locker suddenly on the fifth try, and flung the door open so it hit Lucy in the head, flabby arm and leg.

She screamed out in pain as if she got high-fived in the face.

"Ugh, you bitch!" Then she proceeded to lunge for my hair and my shirt with her barbed nails. I tried to run but she caught a lock of my curly blonde hair and pulled.