Flames And Blades

Chapter One: Killing Me Softly (Played From The Scratched CD, As Usual)

Recording of thoughts no. 379;

Each person really is their own story. Their names are their title and foolish phrases such as 'birth' and 'death' are really just synonyms for 'once upon a time' and 'the end'.

I walk into class, late of course. The locking of my doors and enforcing them had taken up a lot of my morning, even though it had come down to mere muscle memory now. On top of that, I had been too busy recognizing how my neighbourhood was changing rapidly in design without my consent, of course to acknowledging my bus driving. Right. Past. Me. At this point I'm also too busy being angry about realizing that my bus driver must've seen me, at least had to have known I was on his bus and then decided to drive right past me, to actually keep walking. I just stand there, tall, pale and furious at the morning's events. Running late must run deeply in my genes, but still, the bus driver rode right past me. He's known me for well over three years. And today? Rides right past me, no empathy whatsoever. This fact alone starts that inner burning I seem to always get for just about any reason and kicks it into high-gear. Lovely.

Jerk! I had to myself, and then quickly, Sorry man, it's not your fault I'm not a morning person until well past noon, besides these humans just anger me. Because I know I'll feel guilty until Christmas if I don't apologize. Two months of guilt over a mishap is not my thing. I haven't a clue as to what that says about my personality other than juvenile and in need of growing up. Ugh. What's the point of growing up if it's just to die in the end? Maybe a few adventures, but nothing promised.

When I finally got it together, throwing the stupid voice recording on my broken bed as I went, and sprint all the way to school, I'm too full of adrenaline and annoyance with my skinny jeans refusal of my running to fully acknowledge my teacher, Mrs. Rashish. Deciding to curtly mid-length nod and stride to my very, very back seat. Even then, she glares at me with her brown eyes and olive complexion, making it almost impossible to nail her age; she could be twenty with her mid-length shiny brown hair. But she could also be in her forties with the smile lines forming all over her otherwise mark-free face. I could only ever wish I had that level of impossible beauty all the time. Only now it's just starting to scare me how genuinely perfect she looks. All the time. I swear, if you ever saw her in the middle of the night, at a disastrous time, she'd look ready to steal the crown from Mrs. Congeniality while simultaneously death glaring the kids around her into studying more.

Today, it really rather angers me. Just like how, on a regular history day, I'd consider this room my happy place. Today's history class is, as written on the board, Old Earth History 101.'Old Earth', meaning twenty years ago; the same time The Destruction and some unknown power-wave like event basically destroyed Earth until The Demetrians, or as I and my cool-retro self refer to them as 'the Tigerwolves of not London' because I have a thing for seventies hits, unscratched ones for my walkman, at least.

Back to the Demetrians, an alien species that is basically the tiger version of a werewolf, that for some reason have perfect British accents, sans the terminology. However, they are helping repair the damage that still lies from the Destruction, which is a plus. On a normal day, I love history, today, it pisses me off thoroughly because it's the only thing more confusing than the adolescents that surround me on a daily basis. I must have grown up rapid speed in comparison to them because on a regular occurrence I think to myself how similar their species is to barbarians as opposed to regular, socially enjoyable, human interactions. An impatient tapping gathers my attention before I can rant any longer.

"Charlotte!" Mrs. Rashis stage whispers my name, the tone in her voice implying that it is most definitely not the first time. Her face, on the other hand, still has that perfect composed look. Too elegant for me to even attempt. Gods, I wish I could be straight from an Audrey Hepburn movie. Internally eye rolling to myself and my 'too far in the past' daydreams, I reply.