Death is My BFF Rewritten (Book 1 of the Rewritten Death Chronicles)

Chapter 3: Scream

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NO SPOILERS.

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                "Be honest. How does my butt look?"

            I carefully set my paintbrush down, analyzing the canvas in front of me. "Taylor Swift," I replied unvarnished, fixated on the painting.

            Marcy loudly threw open the door and came out of my bathroom with a tight pink dress on, and a curling iron in her hair, anxiety practically pooling in her eyes. "Seriously? Taylor Swift? That's just cruel, Faith. Cruel! This is a catastrophe! I could have sworn those squats would give me the Jennifer Lopez butt I've always wanted. I should have known my trainer, Gabriella, was jealous of my boobs! She did this on purpose! Do you think I should stick out my butt more? Faith? Faith, help me! Please!" Frowning, Marcy analyzed my undisturbed position in front of the easel, then slowly brushed her soft brown eyes along the untouched Gothic black lace dress laying on my bed. "I thought you were trying on my dress? Don't think you're getting out of going tonight. Hello? HELLO?" She was louder now, snapping her fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Faith? Heeellloo? FAITH, MY ASS IS FLAT! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!"

            "What?" I blinked hard as if  suddenly awakening from a dream, suddenly horrified at the vivid painting in front of me.

             I had done it again. Blacked out completely. It had been happening a lot lately. I would begin aimlessly, uncontrollably drawing, and the most random moments. Slashing my paintbrush or pencil across a surface, bending my fingers and wrists at almost painful angles, and then staring blankly at the finished product before me. The stare. You know the one.  The stare where you look unfocused at a certain spot, disconnected from the world, and then suddenly, you become warped into some sort of invisible vortex that consumes your mentality. Too weak from the overpowering force of its core, you no longer have the ability to focus your eyes again, so you just helplessly stare at that same spot falling deeper into the vortex until you eventually snap out of its trance. The finished product of these instances, these bizarre moments where some imperceptible force would take over my mind, had always ended the same exact way for me for two weeks straight.          

            Two mismatched, almond-shaped green eyes gazed almost scathingly back at me through the canvas, pupils like slits and tilted wickedly to the side. It was precisely as I had painted them for fourteen days straight.

            "Hot," Marcy commented, twisting another strand of hair around her curler. "I wish I could paint like you, always have been jealous. I'm also jealous of your butt. Ok, now back to me." She showed me the back of her dress, jabbing at her butt. "Fix my Taylor swift, please?! You're the smart one in the room!"

       Unable to stop myself, I picked the paintbrush up again and added thin black eyeliner beneath both of the exotic, angry eyes. I battled my right hand with the other, trying to stop myself from finishing the painting. I couldn't. I never could. Finally, I gained control over the brush and tossed it back, nearly hitting Marcy in the process, who had just happened to knock down a container of bobby pins and was practically playing fifty-two pickup on the ground.

            "AHHH! I'M GOING INSANE!"

            Screaming, Marcy jumped up, covering her tush with both hands. "Sheesh, you almost made me pee myself! Is my butt really that bad?"