Off the Record

Ⅰ

**Warning-foul language will be used within this story.**

I didn't wish for a meteorite to come crashing to the ground from the sky. I didn't look out my window, praying for something magical to happen to me, nor did I kiss a frog to get my own happy ending. I would never have asked to be who I've become. 

The only silver lining I've been able to find is the sound of stylus hitting a vinyl record. It's possible it's also the lining of records on my bedroom wall that is the only good thing left. I've lost everything. Other girls' make love their kryptonite; it's the only thing that they desire because it sounds so beautiful, much like a fairytale. While they scavenge for a man in an attempt to make their lives whole, I look for records that are already composed and put together.

Why wait for beauty when you can have it now?

There was a time when I believed in coronets and dauntless steeds; where Prince Charming was a reference to endless love tangled with ecstasy. In stories, evil intentions shine through with a red warning sign flashing in front of those who carry them.

 No one ever told me that the villain is the one that makes you laugh until your lungs hurt or makes your eyes overflow with tears. He's the one that holds you so tight until you feel safe in their arms, like you could fall and not break a single bone. 

In my world, I'm the villain.  I should have held myself tighter at night while crying myself to sleep. Maybe I wouldn't be such a mess if I had.

I stare straight ahead at the man across from me at my support group with furrowing eyebrows, my lips set in a pout. My face is flushed with anger, a constant resting bitch face. 

It wasn't always that way, I even have old family photo albums to prove it, toothy grin and all. When I turned thirteen, the smile on my face in school yearbook pictures began to become a facade. I think the last time I saw myself smile was when I was taking horrible middle school selfies.

He sits completely silent, and hasn't spoke a single word since he began coming to group sessions. The most emotion I've seen leave his face is a casual smirk that he gives after he catches me staring at him, lost in space. It's not that I actually stare at him. I mean, who would want to stare at those beautiful eyes, and heavily defined jawbone?

Cough.

I mean, yes, he looks like a tormented bad boy with god-like lips, but that's irrelevant because his face pisses me off more than it turns me on. 

The counselor rambles on and on for what seems like twelve years on the topic of literally nothing. Honestly, it's like he just pulls random words out of his ass and makes them seem important.  

And when he does starts on rant of nothing, my gaze just always rest in the general direction of Mr. Hercules over here.  

His shaggy dark brown hair swings to the left, not really going past his ear. His eyebrows are bold and defined; with hues of gray with a pinch of green, with eyes that bring intensity to any look glanced from his direction.