West Middleton High School. My personal hellhole. A nightmare in itself, like the ones that leave you sitting up
at midnight in your bed, sweaty and screaming. We not only had cliques, but classes-- the top class to the bottom class, like the food chain. The top class (what we bottom-dwellers called "The Peaks") had pretty clothes(sometimes trashy), ugly personalities, gorgeous faces, and a lot of money, one of the many things we did not have in common. There were the group of girls (the 3 "B"s): beautiful, busty, and bitchy. They despised the lowest classes and were admired by everyone in school, even the teachers. This heartless, cold-blooded clique consisted of 4 girls, who's names matched up with their merciless essence- Ashton, Peyton, Brittany, and Sabrina. Sabrina was head of the group, the school's queen bee, worshipped by all dazed freshmen and sophomores. With long, strawberry blonde, luxurious curls that reached her waist, dazzling blue eyes, perfect boobs (for all of her boyfriends, and pervs in the hallway, to gaze in awe at), and a perfect complexion, she ruled the school and everything that came with it. Apart from this were her minions, all clueless and lost without her leading them. There was one thing each of them had in common- they were soulless, ruthless bitches that would do anything to make my life (or any other loser) a living hell.
Then there were the boys, each dreamy and romantic, but also downright ignorant and stupid. Not only did they somehow find a way to flunk every class they had, all the way down to stagecraft, but they were major jerks with no sympathy for others. The group was made up of so many boys, with their King right at the front- Dean Jackson. Sabrina and Dean were the "it" couple, Dean with luscious, beautiful, ruby red hair and emerald green eyes. He was dotted all over the place and freckled in every square inch of his built, muscular body. Minus the douchebag attitude, I have to admit he was my dream date that was so much a dream it would never happen, just as delusional as the idea of pigs flying, or even a pig sprouting mushrooms from its back and floating across the country in midair. It wasn't going to happen, no matter how hard I wanted it.
All of these people, these rulers, monarchs, dictators of my school tortured me just like my father did. The boys through me around, shoved me against lockers, groped me inappropriately, and even threatened me. I was used to this treatment. The girls were more vicious, more cunning and clever than the boys. They knew exactly how to flip the switch that sent me from functional to haywire in an instant. Especially Sabrina. I didn't know why, or what the point was of making me hurt, but it didn't stop, and I wasn't going to be able to make it stop anytime soon.
I thought of all of this while walking down the hallway one day to my AP World History class, until I felt a hard shove that sent me out of focus and crashed into the lockers, followed by a menacing voice. I expected a male, from the physical confrontation. But then a cold, angelic, sinister feminine voice said "Hey, Blandria. How ya doin'?"
And that was the fight that pushed me off the cliff, into the madness and anger that had been swelling up for years below.
