Another Piece of Me {DISCONTINUED}

what is happening to me

A/N

Really quick, just wanted to warn you. There's gonna be some major swearing and some intense(I think?) parts. You have been warned.

Also, we're almost at 100 reads! This means so much to me! To be honest, I only expected two reads a part from my lovely friends (shoutout to lomllola and lailaconda!)

Oh! Before I forget! This part is probably going to be a *little* shorter than my 1,000 word goal per part, just because I thought I'd leave off on a "natural stop," if you get that idea or not.

Anyways, I'll let you go read this next part. Love you all, and enjoy! :)

-darthbacongirl

----

Dean's POV

I shake myself out of my suicidal fantasy. I park my car, thinking about what to tell Melany about my intentional foot-in-the-door. But I didn't want it to happen. I think?

I still don't know.

Maybe I'll just go for it. I mean, I'd been waiting to do that for a while. Maybe I'll just wait and see.

Yeah. I'll wait and see. What's another couple days anyway?

----

Melany's POV

I walk slowly back to the prison that claims to teach me everything I need to know in the field of knowledge. I disagree with them. I'd know how to handle what's happened to me if this school taught me all knowledge. I walk to my locker to drop some things off, and like every stereotypical high school bitch movie, I see fourteen sassy ponytails wearing some Pink clothing, topped off with a huge Coach bag each, the other hands grasping coffee from Starbucks. 

Oh shit.

Yesterday. Seattle.

I'm screwed.

"Hi girls."

"Hey bitch." I hear from 14 spoiled girls.

"How was yesterday?"

"I guess we were late to catch the train onto your idea of some sort of 'slut day'." Allison says. Allison has the school record for the most one-night stands and the most breakups during a year. The record numbers? 23 and 40.

"Yeah. We know you sent us away so you could hook up with some guys. Don't hide it. We know you wanna be a slut, but keep it to yourself, little Melany. Okay Princess?!" Peyton sneers. 

Ah Peyton. The barista and part-time stripper. Yeah. You heard me right. Stripper.

"I think you guys are wrong." I say hesitantly.

"Sure honey." Blake, the head cheerleader says, pinning me to the lockers with her sharp talons she calls fingernails, painted a blood red.

"Tell us!" They say.

I gulp slowly because of the immediate pain that shoots through my throat. I gasp slightly for air. "Never. You don't need to know."