The Party was Killer.

One Row Over, Two Seats Back

IT'S HERE! You guys, I am SO excited! I'd really like your feedback because I would love for this to take off. Let me know what you think. (:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Roses are Red,

Here's something new. 

Violets are violets,

Not fucking blue."

I ripped into peals of laughter as August Carrington sat down after reciting his entry for the Poetry Slam. I couldn't stop laughing. It was so perfect!

August was about 6'2" with jet black hair that he kept cut short on the sides and let it swoop in the front. He constantly wore leather, and he had a personality to die for. I used to spend so much time with him, it was almost like we were brother and sister.

In the eighth grade, we decided we were in love. We were going to get married, and our kids would be badass. About two days later, he asked for his Wedding Ring Pop back after he heard that I snogged Armie Henderson the night before. We stayed best friends, but from that point on he went for anyone that wasn't me. Boys. 

Mrs. Woodsburo's face turned this lovely shade of fuschia, almost as if she'd gone and eaten a five course meal stick of gum from Willy Wonka. Which is Ironic, since Violet turned violet, not blue... I started laughing again. 

"MISter Carrington. What on earth makes you think that it is appropriate for such language in a classroom?" She stated, clenching her pink pig shaped stress ball. That's one thing I miss about being dead. Pulling stunts that require her to squeeze that ball. 

"MISSes Woodsburo. I literally say that about every sappy, goddamn poem that everyone in this class deems themselves important enough to write. Where's Mila? Now her shit, her shit is quality. She'd never miss Poetry Slam Week."

A weight dropped into the center of my stomach and I felt like vomiting. But of course, I couldn't. The black mini dress I had been wearing the night I died with ribbing on the sides suddenly seemed to go green and I felt like blacking out, but I pulled myself out of it.

I was the Poetry Slam winner my sophomore year for a non-rhyming, spoken word piece on abuse. A story I had based off of an old childhood friend who was a foster child. She was somewhere with some rich family now, and I'd never tell her what an impact she had on me. The year before I won for a piece of racial impropriety and the extended- albeit slightly less accentuated- racism in today's society. A piece I'll never recite to people who can hear me again.

I snapped my head up when Mrs. Woodsburo responded to August.

"I deeply regret to inform you that Miss Sylar and I do not share Google Calendars, although this may come as quite a shock to you. In the mean time, I will let your language slide on account of my lack of interest in marching you to the deans office. Consider this your consolation prize for not moving on the the next round with your words that rival Shakespeare. So sorry."

The classroom exploded with the sound of laughter and August smiled like I would have. "Awh, man. Alright. Thanks, Mrs. Dubb." He winked at her and she looked like a disgruntled kitten.  "Next! " she called, and some chick I never cared about got up. 

Elko sat with his paper face down on the table. I just wanted him to flip it over so I could read it. He never submitted his to the class, ever since freshman year he always opted to read the poem to the teacher alone for the credit, and forfeit the contest. I'd never heard his stuff. 

I scanned my old classroom. My usual chair was empty, cold and monumental. I did my kind of glide, and navigated my way around Alex, the class sleeper with his drool in a puddle on the desk. Natalie Something-or-Another sat staring at her poem, looking so nervous. The girl who was at the front of the class had just stated her name that I had just missed, and the title of her poem. 

I reached my desk and stretched my fingers across the laminated wood. Every day, I sat in this chair, bored as all hell. Every day I ignored what everyone said, anything that didn't relate to English. Every day, I wrote line after line, verse after verse in a notebook that never left my side. I secretly named it Delilah, but that's not something you let people know about when you're supposed to be the badass of school. 

"Lady in black.

You call in the night

For a morning that you'll never see.

Lady in black, 

The envy of others,

Lays to rest in the shore 'long the sea.

Do I dream thee, 

Are you there? 

Is it you in the dark?

Do I mistake thee for 

Someone I know?

Did my slumber force me to

Realize that I hate you

For all that you never did share?

Tis a dream, 

But a nightmare

A horseman doth ride 

Through my cortex

And makes me imagine

That the lady in black

Is the girl in the corner

That lives on,

And my heart surely

Gladdens."

I couldn't move. I knew my eyes were wide as a does, and my hand on the desk was shaking so hard I couldn't breathe, not that I needed it. I felt my legs buckle and I fell through my desk and landed midair, curled up in a ball. 

I whipped my head up and stared at this girl, this no one. How could she not have been writing about me? 

She had short, blonde, pixie style hair. Her frame was small and compact, but she had assets to spare. I was kind of jealous of her breast to thigh ratio. She was gorgeous. I racked my brain and I couldn't remember why she wasn't popular. No name, no clue what the title of her poem was, I missed it all. She may very well be my killer and I literally have no recollection of the girl.

The class gave their token applause, uninterested by her verse. She bowed her head bashfully and walked down the third aisle to her desk. She passed Elko and bumped his arm. Their bare skin touched, Elko didn't notice. She, on the other hand, pulled away as if she had been shocked, and whipped her head around to look straight where I was hovering. 

I was stunned. I sputtered a little and watched her reaction. She looked confused, as if she didn't see me. And kept walking. Her face remained twisted in a state of shock and recollection as she returned to her empty desk, one row over and two seats back. 

Why did she look my way when she touched him? Why did she know about me? Why did she write that poem? Why... Why did she kill me?