Story Without A Name

Chapter 1

*Amber's P.O.V.*

*Bell Rings*

I jump up and get out the door as soon as I can. I always try to get a seat by the door. This is my last class. I quickly walk to my locker and watch the different bands and friends meeting up.

A boy from a band of four looks at me. He says something to his bandmates and they all laugh. I shake my head, frustrated. I turn to my locker, putting in the combination twice. I groan when it doesn't open and kick my locker painfully.

"Damnit," I mumble. A hand taps my shoulder making me jump and turn around. One of the boys stands there nervously.

"Um, sorry if I scared you." He smiles slightly. "I'm Victor." He looks away obviously shy. "Need some help?" I nod, before realising he wasn't looking at me.

"Uh, yes. Forty t-two, thirt-ty, t-ten," I manage to mumble out. I stutter nervously because people don't normally talk to me. I hear the locker click and open. "Th-thanks!" I say, relieved. He nods and pauses to consider speaking.

"So, uh, what's your name?" he asks clearing his throat. I look down at my shoes. "I'm Vic," he repeats.

"A-amber," I say still refusing to look at him. He pulls my face up to his gently with his hand. I look into his eyes, which look sad. "Amber," I say louder and more sure of myself.

"Uh, well, Amber, I guess I'll see you around." I nod losing my confidence. He seems very secretive. He momentarily is face to face with me. He shakes his head, barely noticeable, and he moves away slightly.

I vaguely hear one of the other boys call Vic back. I watch him walk away. Vic wears all black: a beanie, skinny jeans, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I notice that his sleeves are pushed up as if he doesn't mind his scars.

I quickly look away, realising I had been staring and grab my iPod from the locker. I switch the song to "Therapy" by All Time Low, the other band I like at my school and my best friend's band.

"My ship went down in a sea of sound. When I woke up alone I had everything. A handful of moments I wished I could change and a tongue like a nightmare that cut like a blade.

In a city of fools, I was careful and cool, but they tore me apart like a hurricane... A handful of moments I wished I could change but I was carried away. Give me therapy.

I'm a walking travesty but I'm smiling at everything. Therapy... You were never a friend to me and you can keep all your misery. My lungs gave out as I faced the crowd.

I think that keeping this up could be dangerous. I'm flesh and bone, I'm a rolling stone and the experts say I'm delirious. Give me therapy. I'm a walking travesty but I'm smiling at everything.

Therapy... You were never a friend to me and you can take back your misery. Arrogant boy, love yourself so no one has to. They're better off without you. Arrogant boy, cause a scene like you're supposed to.

They'll fall asleep without you. You're lucky if your memory remains. Give me therapy. I'm a walking travesty but I'm smiling at everything. Therapy...

You were never a friend to me and you can take back your misery. Therapy... I'm a walking travesty but I'm smiling at everything. Therapy... You were never a friend to me and you can choke on your misery."

I notice that I'm singing as I walk, and when the song ends I find myself at the park. I put my earbuds around my neck and sit down on a swing.

"She sits up high, surrounded by the sun. One million branches and she loves everyone. 'Mum and dad, did you search for me? I've been up here so long I'm going crazy.'"

I smile. It sounds a little like the boy from school today.

"As the sun went down we ended up on the ground. I heard the train-" The music abruptly stops. I see the four boys walking toward me.

"Hey that girl from school," says one with big ear-plugs and a hat on. I blush and go wide-eyed at the unwanted attention.

"Yo, Amber!" Victor says loudly, as I put my headphones back in and look away. The song is playing much too loud and I yank them back out. Without looking up I turn it down, but a hand grips my wrist painfully, keeping me from putting it back in my ear.

"Let me go!" I protest and yank away from him.

"Fine," Victor says, clearly frustrated, and he turns to leave. I grab his sleeve.

"Uh, w-what do-o you wa-want?" I ask quietly. He looks back, calmer.

"I, um, heard you singing, and wanted to give you our demo." He looks at me hopefully, almost stunning me.

"Sure?" I respond but it sounds a bit more like a question.

"You don't sound so sure," Vic says laughing softly.

"S-sorry. I'm n-not used-d to t-talking to anyone. S-s-sorry."

"Your stutter seems serious." I stare at him surprised. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Yeah, s-sorry," I say and look down. I feel him press a cold cd case into my hand. "T-thanks."

"Damn it," he says under his breath. "Um, bye," he adds, then, without waiting for a reply, he left. I slowly stand and try to recall my lyrics.

"I knew a boy who liked to draw. He drew pictures nobody saw; he was most artistic late at night; in the bathroom, out of sight. He kept a secret that no one knew; he didn't tell a soul and his gallery grew.

His drawings were different, no paper or pen, but needed a bandage every now and again. We stood by the river, under the stars.

He rolled up his sleeves and showed me his scars. He felt embarrassed and looked at his shoe, but I rolled up my sleeves and said 'I draw, too.'" By the time I finish I am crying. I imagine the mess my makeup is making and wipe my face with my sleeve.

I pause by the door. I open it and walk in, watching the floor to avoid the loud spots. I get to my room unnoticed. My room consists of posters everywhere and damaged furniture.

Most of my posters are All Time Low and my brother's band. I pull off my sweatshirt and silently stand in front of the mirror. All the insults cross my mind and I cry silently, unable to look away. My scars show dark to my pale skin.

My actual cuts show bright red in comparison and I hiccup quietly. I unwrap the worse ones and walk into my bathroom. I wash my arm carefully and my white sink scares me. I get new gauze and wrap my arm back up.

I sit on the closed toilet lid and try to calm down. I glance at the cleaner wrist. I open the drawer beside me, pulling out a box. I look at all the clean, shiny razors. I get out one of the smaller blades, turning it over and over in my hand.

I close my hand over it tightly. It cuts deep into my palm. I cry louder, sobbing and drop it. I get up and let my palm drip into the sink.

(This is a previously posted story, edited and now been used for a class! Vote again and maybe suggest to others?)