Her's To Keep

Chapter One • "Questions"

  Most people say that it's easy to change your life, or the way you present yourself as a person. Though, that's not completely true.

  You can't just completely change without a single question asked. Of course, there will be questions asked, because that's what people do. They ask questions. Really annoying questions, but still, questions.

  I used to get questions from peers, teachers, and even family members every single day. That's why I like college. Because nobody asks questions. Probably because nobody cares. But still, it's better having nobody care about you than constantly being bombarded with questions.

  "Why did you change so much?"

  "What happened to you, Melissa? You used to be so nice!"

  "When did you become a queer?! I swore you liked guys!"

  "Where did this change in additude come from? I thought young ladies were taught to respect their elders!"

  "How could you do this? You have disgraced our family name.

  Always questions...

  What? When? Why? Where? How?

  Always with the damn questions! No more questions! No.. More.. Questions...

  College will be better. I'll make sure of that. No questions asked, don't get close to anyone. Don't talk to anyone. If you don't make any connections, nobody would care if you disappear. It'll be happy and quiet, and there will be no questions.

  I should explain.

  My name is Melissa Mary-Ann Day. I used to live in Minnesota, with my mom, my dad, my nine year old sister, and my older brother. Currently, I am living in the dormitory of the University of California, in you guessed it— California. More specifically, Los Angeles. I had saved enough money to have at least two-thousand dollars in life savings, and I got a scholarship in academics, my major being the culinary arts and business, minoring in digital design.

    So far my anxiety ridden life hasn't screwed me over, but then again, I'm barely moved into the dormitories, so I'm just waiting for the bullshit to show up.

  Why are these boxes so heavy? It's not like I have that many personal belongings other than my clothes, books, and a few other things.

  Then again, I'm about as strong as my nine year old sister would be, and I don't bother working out anymore. It takes up too much time, and it's not like I'm overweight. I'm just out of shape. And weak.

  I sigh, setting the last box—of three— down on the bed I have claimed as my own. Well, not really, it's more because the other bed looks like somebody else has claimed it, and I'm not looking to start any damn drama, so I'm not even gonna bother touching her shit.

  God, let's hope she isn't hot. Or annoying. And doesn't talk a lot. That would be fantastic.

  I look around the room, a small smile on my face. I've worked so hard for this. I did so many extracurricular activities and clubs, so many part time jobs, just to be here. Just to be in the very spot that I'm standing in right now. Let's hope all that work was worth it, because I'm not going back to Minnesota. Nowhere near that house, at least.

  I set up my side of the room, putting my books on the shelf above my bed, my textbooks on the desk I had brought up here beforehand. I organize my space, making my bed, putting my toiletries on my side of the vanity sink set, and cleaning up some other things.

  I then look at the other side of the room, seeing how decorated my roommate's side is, and how bare mine is. Brushing a piece of hair out of my face, I examine her side further, looking at all the little details. It's like a basic white girl threw up in here, threw in some tacky "vintage" curtains, and called it good.