Bullet Proof Chest (Sonny Moore/ Andy Biersack/ Kellin Quinn)

One: Cahil

"Mom!" I groan loudly out of absolute disgust. I'm just so completely sick of everything lately. This, however, is just cruel. "You canNOT be serious. You just CAN'T be." I know better. Mom doesn't lie. I almost wish that I didn't know better, that I could just be ignorant about this for just a minute before life slaps me in the face. There's no use wishing, though, because I already know. The only plan that I have time to muster up in the five seconds between the time her lips stopped moving to now is to just no longer be imprisoned in this body, stuck being me. I will escape, take on an alter ego. If it could just be solid enough for me to stand on and get somewhere with, then it would be a good plan. I have no idea what move to make, what to say. Mom glares at me a little bit. She doesn't appreciate my reaction even the tiniest bit. I'm already sure that Mom thinks that I'm overreacting, but whatever. I never told her what happened, so I can't blame her for not understanding. But would it kill her if she could at least try once in a while?

"Yes, Cahil," my mom sighs, staring me straight in the eye, "I'm serious." She decides that she's going to stick around and make this bad dream turn into a nightmare. "So please be ready to make yourself useful and help out next Friday. Okay? Okay," she answers the question for me. On any other occasion I would argue it out with her, but it isn't even worth the fight today. This is something I would never win, and I'd rather just hand it over than give her a crown and a reason to gloat.

Almost instantly, Mom disappears from the small doorway and retreats back across the hall to her room, only to find herself back on the phone talking to whom I could only assume to be Maribelle. I imagine that Mom just left her on hold for at least 6 minutes to break the "bad news" to me. I watch her as she talks into the phone with evident seriousness plastered onto her made up face, as though she just had Botox done. Her face remains unchanging as she glances back at me. She lies and says that I'm thrilled, then gives me a small wave and a shrug. That wave and shrug have always been her go to mechanism for trying to make me feel better. If I know my mother, and I just so happen to, I know that she is dying to explode in a giddy, excited sort of way while she remains composed sitting there in front of me. But I mean, why wouldn't she?

It must be understood that I don't hate Maribelle. Not in the least bit. I actually enjoy all of the stories that her and my mother tell when the three of us gather out at the bistro set just outside of the kitchen for tea and coffee cake. They told tales of being partners in crime before turning in their sneakers and booze for heels and wine. I even enjoy going on shopping trips with them across the world once a month when I'm home. My mother and Maribelle used to live next door to each other when they were growing up. Still to this day they are the very best of friends. Maribelle had been a school year above my mother, but she was held back in Kindergarten for misbehavior, a characteristic that she would no doubtably pass on in her gene pool. Once my mother started Kindergarten, they were drawn to each other like magnets to a fridge. Their friendship budded and blossomed, and they were inseparable.

My mother has always been sympathetic with me, though. Well, she likes to believe herself to be, anyways. Me? I'm not sold. The fact that she shuts the door doesn't help her case.

My name is Cahil Lindson. I'm 18 years of age, but most of the time, I have to act older. My middle name is Dempsey. Not too many people know that. It's not because I hate it or am embarrassed by it. I just don't care to tell anyone. Too much of my life is publicized, and I like to keep this part of me a secret. It's one of the few things that I actually do like about myself. I lucked out that it's not a common middle name, like Marie or Ann, or a dumb one like Myrtle. During the summer I live with my parents, Gloria and George. I was born to be a perfect child, and my parents actually believe that I am. They say that's why I don't have any siblings.

Bear with me for a moment here while I portray the picture that my parents have painted of me. When my parents look at me, I am flawless. I have everything that I could possibly ever want, including 3 ponies and 5 horses. They even bought me a horn to attach to my beautiful, albino Andalusian mare for when I wanted a unicorn. On top of that, they hired an entire team to work specifically for that horse to keep her body clean and glittered, while keeping her mane and tail untangled and colored like a rainbow. I'm small framed and dainty like my mother, with curves a-plenty in all of the "right" places. I have been protected so well that not a single scar graces my perfect skin. I graduated with a 4.33 GPA at the prestigious boarding high school that I attended. I was the envy of all of my schoolmates. I was the captain of the varsity cheerleading squad. The uniform that makes the other girls look awkward flatters my body wonderfully. I'm on my way to begin attending Oxford College in London, England. My dad's a big deal in the NFL business, as well as an owner of a hotel chain. I'm basically social royalty. I'm a virgin, untouched until the day I should eventually marry another social royal. I'm sweet and drop dead gorgeous. I regularly attend formal events. I'm always squeaky clean. I eat only the most gourmet food prepared by my private chef. I am so talented in everything that I do that my parents have an entire room filled with my ribbons, medals, trophies, and other various awards. Magazines have projected me as "the American Dream."