unwritten || bughead

prologue

BC

I hate myself.

I covered the visible bruises with a swipe of concealer. I threw on a grey sweater with a white collar hide the ones making unholy patterns across my back to my shoulders and neck. The lines of bruising that travelled down my legs were stowed away under a pair of skinny jeans. I dusted grey eyeshadow and several layers of mascara to conceal the storm raging in my eyes. I put my hair in a perfect ponytail to show I wasn't unraveling from within.

Because I was.

Very slowly

losing myself

in an abyss

that was

impossible to

escape.

I was being bled out underneath my own skin. Invisible soul slashes draining my strength. My will. My resistance was being stripped away from my body, little by little.

My life being torn to shreds. Right in front of my open hands.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

No one else saw.

No one else knew.

No one else suspected.

Because he hid it well.

Oh, so well.

But I could see it.

I could see everything.

The devil behind his humorous personality. The mumbles and whispers spoken in between sentences of glee. The executioner behind his smile. The glances and glares given discreetly behind the backs of those who didn't suspect.

And soon enough, scars form upon layers and layers of scars left behind from his words and games and the ones I've created. The torment and torture that leaves marks and damage. The guilt that overwhelms the innocent. The piles of debts that he believes I owe him. He acts out only according to his schedule. He only shows respect for the ones above him. Not including the one who is right there next to him.

But only one minute below.

And he holds status against that.

All that he can.

I looked up from my work and saw what was staring back at me and into the eyes of others.

I said "I hate myself."

And I meant it.

JJ

Goodbye.

I almost did. And I did.

But I didn't.

Not in that way, but I ran away.

And I could, thanks to emancipation. My mother signed it willingly. Well, willingly as in half drunk. But she won't care when she's sober. And now I'm on my father's bike; getting as far away from her as possible. I had nothing left there anyway. Only blood stained blades and lighters. Cancer sticks and a rusty switchblade.

And memories.

But the bad outweighs the good.

Enough said.

Maybe I can get out of the spotlight and into the shadows. Somewhere where I can't be seen. Like a snake lying low in the tall grass.

And now I was on the road to the rest of my life. My life away from her. My life where I can be better.

My life in a town called Riverdale.

Goodbye, Forsythe Pendleton.