Mourning Star (Sequel to Unbroken)

Sick Sad World

 The week of thanksgiving.

Yay.

Normally people would be all “Yay! Two days off!”

No.

I love the two says out of hell, but Thanksgiving has always been stressful to me.

1.) We travel to one of the uncles’ houses each year.  When it was with a plane was when it was bad.  It’s a mix of the people staring at you and the heights that get me.

2.) I have to help cook.  Don’t get me wrong, I love to cook, but cooking for about 40 people isn’t always that fun.

“Bye Little Wolf! Don’t set anyone on fire!” Uncle Dahvie joked as I got out of the car.

“I’ll try Uncle Dahv!” I yelled over my shoulder while walking into the school.  I pulled at my purple plaid skirt.  My school uniforms were interesting fitting on my body.  My shirt was always slightly too big but my skirt always rode up and showed off my ass a bit.  I actually switched to a messenger backpack because we determined it was my normal backpack that got stuck on the skirt and pulled it up.

I continued to walk, doing my mental checklist I do every morning. 

English homework? Yup.

Science? Yup.

Math? …

Shit.

I pulled out my phone and decided that dealing with Jayy would be better than dealing with Dad.  Mistake one.

“Blake? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Who do I need to hurt? Do I-” he asked frantically.

“Uncle Jayy!” I interrupted.  “I forgot my math on the table and I can’t get detention again! Can you bring it to me? First class doesn’t start for another ten minutes,” I asked.

“Uh, yeah,” was all he said.

“Don’t tell dad.  He will be so pissed,” I plead.

“I won’t, sweetheart.  Meet me at the gates I’ll be there in five,” he said in an older-brother tone.

He pulled up and several people stared at him.  Then at me.  Our hair was almost the same at the moment.  The only difference being that his was shorter and mine had green, purple, and blue streaked into it. 

“Blake!” Uncle Jayy yelled.

“Thanks Uncle Jayy!” I shouted as I grabbed the folder with the ever so precious homework in it and threw it in my bag.  I managed to give him a quick hug before the bell rang.

Social studies class.  Yay (obvious sarcasm)

“Alright class! Listen up! Today we will be watching a video on the American…” and tune out. 

I sit in the back of the class and pull out my ventbook.  That is what Jayy called it, anyways.  It’s where I vent, write poems, and draw.  I decide to draw while “watching.”

Mistake two.

The video starts and I immediately have no trouble tuning out the monotone speakers.

“Blake Smith,” the social studies teacher, Mrs. Jacobson (aka Mrs. Bitch-face) yells.  She walks over to me and snatches my ventbook away from me.

Damn her.

That notebook held my poems, drawings, and all of my venting.  It even held letters to my idols about my self-harming, anxiety, and EDs.

“Give that back.  I have a personal right of privacy,” I said to her sternly.

“No.  Our school holds the right to search anything a student brings on campus,” she grinned wickedly.