The Phantom of Scranton Hill

7

It had been a little more than seventy-two hours since his death, and so far, all Justine had done was cry herself to sleep.

After the incident, the policemen offered to drive her home, which she kindly accepted as she had no other method of transportation. She struggled to give directions, but was ultimately able to make it back to her grandmother's house. Refusing to greet her grandmother at the door, Justine sprinted to the guest room and slammed the bedroom door, locking it immediately. And she'd been there since, crying her strained heart out and refusing to make any contact with the outside world.

It was now Tuesday morning. The night before, Justine had received a phone call from the hospital. Her mother was ready for open visits. But she had a much more difficult task to complete. Justine had to face school.

Bullies, Queen Bees, uninterested teachers. If it was up to her, she would continue drowning her sorrows in her pillow, but Fate decided otherwise. And frankly, Justine couldn't disagree. She knew she couldn't keep herself cooped up in her room for the rest of her life no matter how badly she wanted to. She knew that she had to face the outside world sometime and better sooner than later when everyone forgot she existed.

Well, maybe that won't be such a bad thing, Justine thought. Shrugging her shoulders and moaning as she pulled the warm blankets off of her, Justine got up. She promised herself she would. And today she wouldn't cry either.

Dragging herself to the closet, Justine grabbed a pair of dark jeans and a light gray flowy top that read, "Don't judge a book by its movie." It was a direct attack to the Percy Jackson movies, and she immediately wanted the shirt the second she saw it in stores.

Justine ran through her morning routine--something she'd strayed from these past few days: brush teeth, brush hair, curl hair, decide curly hair does not look good, straighten hair, sigh in irritation, apply makeup, remove makeup because clown. Every morning was pretty much the same pathetic thing, but still, Justine left the isolation and sanctuary of her bedroom. She wasn't one to procrastinate.

Justine strutted through the halls, keeping her chin high, and once again, people stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Just stared. No pointing. No laughing. No whispering. Expressions of shock were written across their faces, but the emotion in each of them was entirely different.

In some, she saw horror; others, pity and sadness; sympathy and despair. She saw thousands of stories, but not once did she see the one thing she wanted, needed. Not once did she see empathy. But it was because no one could give it to her. It only confirmed what she already knew. She was entirely alone. No one felt what she felt. No one felt what she needed them to feel. But she wasn't surprised. Her recent life was one of many complications, but she couldn't show that it affected her. She wouldn't. She came to school this morning brand new, not a broken toy.

She trudged into first period, earning a bright smile from the teacher Mrs. Breton. Justine had always been passionate about English Literature. The old books were the only real history of the time, the only thing that couldn't be affected by Time's wrath or biased politics. She loved imagining the kinds of events the authors suffered through to be inspired to write such pieces.

How tight were the pants? she often wondered.

But above all, she loved Shakespeare. She was intrigued by the hidden language that he used to write, how there were always deeper meanings in his plays. She had a niche for deciphering them when no one else could. It made her feel special.

Justine tossed her bag lightly onto the cream colored tiles and took her notebook and pen out like she had never left. She received curious and confused looks from her classmates, but she tried her best to push them down, unintentionally hearing the occasional whisper about the tragic accident. The words immediately turned her ears off. Obviously, people were still talking about it.