For the Love of a Goth

Happiness?

For most people, being seventeen andbeing in high school is one big, stressful popularity contest, butfor the freaks, outcasts, the ones everyone avoids in the hallways,life is easy. Put up with the occasional insult or asshole knockingyour books to the floor, and you can skirt by mostly unnoticed. I,Claire Elizabeth Armen, am proud to say I haven't been noticed inover three years.

I came early into my talents and myinterests. Most kids will flip flop through life trying to figure outwhat they're good at and what they want to do. Me, I'm an artist. Iexcel at both drawing and poetry. I even write lyrics. I get goodgrades in school, but nobody knows it. I like to keep that underwraps. I get made fun of enough as it is without adding geek or nerdto my list of attributes. My life is far from perfect, I know that.I've known since the day my father went to prison four years ago.That was the first happy day in my life after three years of pain andsuffering.

I thought at the age of ten when myfather started touching me, that I was wrong, I was toblame. I kept it a secret from my mother, but I think she knew. Icould tell by the guilt ridden looks she would slide my way at everyfamily meal, and the sorrow that would cross her soft features whenshe thought no one was looking. It wasn't until three years laterwhen my sister started to ask questions about daddy, that I spokeout. I was not going to let my baby sister endure the samehumiliation I was forced to live with everyday.

My first year in high school was fullof trials and court dates and endless drama. I quickly took todepression as I had to relive the rough touch of his callused handsroving up and down my young, undeveloped body, for judge and jury. Istill remember the lust, raw in his dark brown eyes, as I describedevery detail in front of the court. I trembled and cried under thatpotent, heavy-browed stare. His gaze was mocking and it followed myevery move.

My sister and I cried through theprocess together, building a bond that could never be broken. I foundanother outlet though. A habit I've never been able to break in theyears since. One that has stuck with me like a security blanket. Selfmutilation... cutting mostly, though piercings help, too. That's alonger lasting pain, throbbing for weeks before calming. My longblack hair serves to hide the ten holes that line each of myearlobes, though not much can be done about the six other piercingson my face. Every time my mother looks at me, I see thedisappointment in her large blue eyes. Sorry, mom.

She knows nothing of my habit. It wouldkill her to see the stark white lines that run up and down both myarms. Only my spunky sister, Cameran, is privy to that secret. Idon't trust any other living soul besides Cam. She's so much strongerthan me, taking our father's abuse and burying it deep in her pastwhere it stays, collecting dust and cobwebs. My memories are not soeasily repressed.

Obviously, I don't have any friends,and I am okay with that. I go through life, oblivious to anyone else,headphones shoved in my ears and notebook not far away.

The only class in school I care toattend, mind and body, is English. All of the others, I show up andsit, not paying very much attention, yet still able to pick upeverything I need to know. Now that you know about me, I'd like totell you how Mrs. Pessimism made her first friend in seven years.

First period English, Mr. Farley'sclass, I spend hovering over my notebook, scribbling and doodling, inmy own little world. I sit in a corner desk in the back of the roomwith a two desk radius in all available directions. My solitude isappreciated, though not altogether voluntary. I prefer Freakvilleto being glared at by Madison Dover, Mrs. Prom Queen. Her long,straight blonde locks, full, pouty, pink lips, and perfectlymanicured nails make me sick. (Especially so when I look down at myown bitten down fingernails to pick a piece of my chipped blackpolish off my thumb.)

Halfway through class one Mondaymorning early in my senior year, I ignored the door opening andclosing and the interruption of class to announce a new transfer fromDenver. I only glanced up when I felt someone approaching. Standingnext to my desk was a boy in a stylishly tattered pair of jeans, asimple blue and white striped polo and a pair of black Chucks(Converse sneakers, for those of you who may not know). I angled alook at his face and took in the tanned complexion matched with grayeyes and shaggy brown hair that threatened to blind him if it got anylonger. He smiled at me with straight white teeth and I rolled mygreen eyes and went back to my current poem. I fully intended toignore the fact that New Kid had just voluntarily sat down inFreakville, so close, I could feel him hovering. He looked jutlike all the other metro/preps who ignored me and called me Freak.Why he hadn't chosen the surprisingly empty seat next to Madison, Ididn't care. Most in his position would have jumped at the chance.