A/N: Hey guys! So this is my new fanfic called "Infectious". For now, I imagine Taissa (the main character) being played by Shailene Woodley and Harry Styles of course as himself. I want to make something clear that I am only using Harry's physical looks as inspiration for his character, he will not be associated with One Direction or anything like that! I reallly, really hope you enjoy this story and since I uploaded 2 parts in one day I would hope to complete some goals:
50 total reads
5 total votes
5 total comments
I don't think that's too much to ask and I think we can do it!!
Love ya <3
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When I woke up on the morning of September the 9th, I wanted to cry.
When my foster mother Melinda knocked harshly on my bedroom door to get up, I stuffed myself under the covers and drew in jagged breaths.
When my alarm rang ten minutes later, I picked it up and threw it against the walls of my bedroom. I would not, could not, go to school today.
Not since It happened.
Not since he had ruined everything.
After another fifteen minutes, I finally dragged myself out from under the covers (only because Melinda's furious knocking was giving me a splitting headache). I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and let out a large sigh. I rubbed my fingers lightly over the scar that extended from the top of my left collarbone to just above my heart.
You see, last year, everyone wanted to be my friend.
Last year, I was on the Homecoming Court.
Last year, guys would swoon whenever I looked their way and flashed a smile.
Last year, when everything was good,
.
This year, I was that girl.
The helpless one; the one who needed pity, sympathy, words of encouragement.
Everywhere I went, people looked at me as though I was wounded.
I am not wounded.
.
This year, I am the outcast, the weirdo, the freak.
This year, I am the girl whose parents were murdered.
This year, I am the girl who was shot, who was supposed to die but didn't.
This year, I am the girl with the hole in her heart.
.
A sick, disfigured creature.
A mutation of life not capable of survival, of endurance.
This year, I am not the popular vote, I am the pity vote.
This year, I am going to walk through the halls trying to avoid the disgusted stares, the murmurs.
This year, everything will be bad.
I clipped my heart moniter to my chest and attached it to the jeans that I had just put on. To accompany my jeans, I picked out an indie-style shirt from Urban Outfitters that covered my neck and a couple bengals. You see, normally I'd wear a scoop neck dress or a v cut tee shirt or something that shows a little cleavage, even. But ever since It happened I had donated all of those types of things to a charity. I wouldn't be needing them anyway. I then went into my small but comfortable bathroom to wash my face and apply a little mascara and a dab of lip gloss. When I looked in the mirror, however, I saw how truly disastrous the effects of my summer had been. My skin--which would've been tanned and freckled at this point--was pale and blotchy; the bags under my eyes were purple and weighted with misery. My typically bright blue eyes had transitioned into a more depressing gray hue and I did not look anything like myself. I suppose that is what three straight months indoors will do to you.
