The School of Rock

Raelyn

"Homework, Miss Harrows, is compulsory. I expect you to actually do it, next time, understand?" My HSIE teacher, Ms Bart, says.

"But Miss," I growl, "I'm leaving tomorrow!" She raises an eyebrow, and I know what's coming next.

"Oh? And where, may I ask, are you going?" she asks slyly, smirking. I sigh and begin to walk away. "Where, Miss Harrows?!" I shake my head and keep walking. I don't care. It's my last day, whatever, right? Which gives me a thought.

I duck my head, dodging as many people as I can. I here a few "emo"'s here and there, and a "slut", too. Apparently I'm not as good at being invisible at I think I am.

I make it to the library without too much harm done, and then stop dead in my tracks.

"Hey, Copy-kitty, wait up!" Copy-Kitty is what she calls me. Apparently when I first came to school I copied her nickname, Kitty. Yeah, I told it to everyone in the hopes they'd make friends with me. Sad, I know. But I know for a fact that her nickname was 'Ri'.

"Yo, Kathrine to retard? I said stop walking, emo!" A hand swings at my face and I duck. God dammit, one of these days.... The hand latches onto my throat. I quickly check and see that it's the left hand. I grab the wrist with both my hands and launch all my body weight to the left, praying it will work. We both go down and I quickly roll away, only to glance up and stare in fear at the dull green eyes of Kathrine's boyfriend. His hand draws back past his shoulder, and slams down into my solar-plexus, leaving me gasping for breath. I struggle to get away, and my cheek stings with a slap that oaf left me. I swing my arms and legs out, catching the inside of his thigh with my heel. He lets out a hiss, but otherwise doesn't react. I wonder for the millionth time if he can actually speak English, but the thought is interrupted by a pain in my ankle. I cry out, but his large hand quickly covers my mouth. He spits in my face, and then jumps up, kicks me in the side a few times, and walks over to Kathrine. He wraps his arm around her waist and they walk away calmly. I curl up in the fetal position and try not to cry, struggling to breathe. I begin to crawl for cover-the library. If they come back, I'm roadkill. But the librarian can't watch someone beat me up, right?

I make it to the library and limp slowly to the bathroom I know is in there. Another day doing my makeup at school instead of at home. Otherwise, I get great big black tear marks down my face, which doesn't really help me with the whole 'emo' thing. My hair is jet black- in fact, I've never seen hair darker, and I didn't even have to dye it. It's in that sought of scene style, shaggy yet poofy-ish, with a jagged fringe that covers my left eye. Luckily the spit had missed my hair, which I had hairsprayed into shape, and it was still it's normal emo position. Emo. I hate that word. A streak that started thick on my fringe and gradually got thinner as it reached the bottom of my hair was dyed dark purple.

I push the mirror inwards until I hear a pop and when I look up, a little cupboard lies before me. My secret stash. It's full of black lipstick, black eyeliner, mascara, and hairspray, and a compact mirror. I wince when I see myself. Covered in scratches, bruises and blood, with little dirty tear tracks running down my cheeks. But I smirk. I don't wash it off- the freakier I am during this mission the better, right? I quickly tease my hair a little more and hairspray it, and put on the eyeliner. I stab myself in the eye, swear, and rub it away. I decide to do it heavily- all I wear is mascara and eyeliner anyway. Leave lipgloss, toner, and eyeshadow to the popular people, right? Yeah, sure, whatever. I don't care. I gaze sadly at the black lipstick- I don't use it anymore. Well, screw it, I think, and put it on. I finish off with the mascara, and then pause, biting my lip, and get the eyeliner out again. I would do my Black Veil Brides warpaint. It consists of the stitch, which goes from the right corner of my lip, and trails off my face, three vertical marks under my right eye, and one black line that goes vertically from just under my left eyebrow to just under my left eye. When I look up, I smile. This is me. This is who I am. A weird girl with weird hair, covered in scars and scratches and blood and bruises, wearing weird warpaint, and an evil, yet hurt, look in her charcoal-grey eyes.