Train

3. Pretty little reject

Playlist for this chapter: Invisible by 5sos

Better of dead by Sleeping with Sirens

Throne by Bring me the Horizon

My name is Luna, but they loved to call me Lunatic. I never was like them, I never dressed like them, acted like them or thought like them. They thought I was crazy, called me names and sometimes even punched me.

It felt bad to see the dark blue or purple bruises standing out on my pale skin, dark red scars climbing up from my wrist to my elbow and from my knees to my hips.

One name was practically burned into my brain. "Pretty little reject" they had called me.

It doesn't sound that bad, I know, but I can tell you why it was.

I have always been told I was pretty, sometimes even gorgeous. They always wanted me to wear dresses, put on makeup and do my hair to make me look even better but I just didn't want to. I didn't want to be their doll.

Once I heard a conversation on the train, some woman said to her friend that I shouldn't waste my pretty face like that. (A/N: Know where I got this idea from)

So "Pretty little reject" meant a lot to me, a girl who never wanted to be "pretty", get cat-called and harassed, a girl who meant little to nothing to anyone, a girl who would probably never fit in with the others.

It meant a lot to me, a pretty little reject.

It's probably hard to understand why I didn't like to be called pretty, but I said above pretty meant a lot more. It meant being forced to always look beautiful, do my makeup, hair, nails and wear dresses. And also so many things more.

To tell you that, you have to know that even though I was an outsider I knew a lot about everyone. I was good at observing and reading people.

I always knew how many girls were in love with handsome Mathias, a boy who was secretly gay and had to hide it from everyone.

I knew that all the pretty girls like Debby and Jenna ate their meals and ran to the toilets just to stick their fingers down their throats and get rid of everything in their stomach.

I once saw Kristina standing in front of the mirror of the bathroom next to our changing rooms. She was trying to lace up the corset as much as she could to hide the bit of fat that she had on her stomach. I came out of the cubicle I had sat in while P.E. and helped her tie the knot. I know I shouldn't have done it, but she was thankful and she knew I wouldn't tell anyone why she was so skinny looking.

I was the shadow of everyone at school, you could tell me a name and I could tell you everything about them in exchange. And because I had no friends every secret was safe. After some time people even told me their secrets. But after they spoke to me they acted like assholes again.

From that on I knew that pretty didn't only mean pretty, it meant so much effort and hurting yourself in the process that I just couldn't bear it.

But of course I hurt myself, and everyone else did too. So many bruises and broken bones, cuts and scratches. I was their punchbag. A punchbag with a soul, which they didn't realize.

Well, until we graduated.

I had asked our headmaster if I could hold a speech and of course he agreed, happy that anybody wanted to do it. Especially happy that I would do it, an outcast.

On that day I got up on stage with a list and a microphone. Everybody was smiling and snickering, waiting for me to embarrass myself but I turned everything around.

All the knowledge I had collected about them spilled out of me like a waterfall and nobody was safe, not even the teachers.

Everybody had their dirty secrets, some even illegal.

So I was standing there, smiling with the list of names in my hand while the people either laughed, applauded, cried, got angry or were anxious if I said something about them too.

At the end, nobody laughed or applauded anymore, though.

I had uncovered every secret of every person at this school until only one name was on the list.

Luna Ramirez.

Myself.

"And to end this speech, I wanted to tell you something about myself." The people who had stared at their feet suddenly jerked up their heads.

"Or better said, I wanna show you something."

I pulled up my left sleeve and pointed at all the scars. "Some I did to myself because of you, some you did to me. For example, thanks Tommy Brastok for this beautiful long scar, all along my forearm. I really appreciate that you slammed my head through a window and then cut myself with one of the broken glass pieces. Nice ten stitches, but to be real I could have had a good life without them."

I paused and let my gaze glide over the audience. The emotions were mixed and I loved it. I explained all the other scars on my left arm, right arm, both legs, stomach, back and then I got to my head and neck.

"So, we finally made it to my favorite scars." I sounded like a psycho, and I totally knew it. I loved how I had them under my control.

"These scars were the worst for me because even though they're on display most of the time nobody asked about them. So I'm gonna tell you about them now. This one for example."

I raised my chin and pointed at a line across my throat.

"It was a nice present from Clara Stone and her friends, who had pushed me against a locker after a long day of school and held a knife to my throat. Oh, how I wished they had just killed me instead of leaving this permanent reminder on my body, a reminder that I was never worth anything."

"She's a fucking liar, don't believe her!" Clara Stone screamed but I cut her off.

"Clara, just ask your boyfriend Jack if he still had his blue pocket knife."

Jack nodded. There were gasps escaping from some open mouths while everyone was staring at Jack and Clara.

"I'm not finished yet. There are so much more on my head and face."

Sometimes I still ask myself if I was really a psychopath, just because I did this. But they all really deserved it.

I fucking owned it, it was my day. And it still is.
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Is this chapter too psycho? Too extreme? Too unrealistic? Honestly, idk but it's pure emotion okay