Graffiti Night

What happens in school...

"Don't try to fight the storm,
You'll tumble overboard,
Tides will bring me back to you" - Deathbeds, Bring Me The Horizon

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So, you could say I live the normal life of a 17 year old girl. But that would be over exaggerating it.

I don't live the normal life of a 17 year old girl. I don't have good school reports, I fail almost all my classes, I don't listen to people, but I couldn't care less.

When ever I try to veer into the normal side of life, everything turns upside down. But when that happens, I just sit down and draw. For some reason all my ideas flow when I'm angry. So whenever I want to draw, I just think about how irresponsible and shit my dead-beat dad is. And how he doesn't give two shits about me and my brother, Ryan.

Ryan seems to know what to do when I get too angry. He's a year older than me and is sort of like a dad to me. He always makes sure I have my wallet with me before I leave the house, makes sure I have my phone on me and it's charged, makes sure I have enough money for food and enough to get home. He just takes care of me, in a way my actual dad has no idea how to.

Mac, well, he's the brother I never had. He's my best friend and always knows how to put a smile on my face regardless of my mood. I've known Mac for as long as I can remember. My mum and his mum were best friends.

So that's a bit about my life so far...

But now I'm stuck in this shit school. Ramblton, the school for prissy pussies. And as I sit in front of the school counselor, I know that my life isn't going to get any better any time soon.

"So, Amber, how have you been feeling lately?" Mrs. Prick asks. I'm not even joking, that's her name.

"So much better." I smile sarcastically. All counselors I have been to have one goal, to try make me cry. But that's not easy for me. When my mum died I didn't even cry. Mrs. Prick, or as I like to call her, "Pock" because of the crater-size pockmark on her cheek, smiles a fake white smile.

"Now, sweetie, remember how this counseling thing works? I ask you questions, and you open up and let everything flood out. All your emotions and thoughts." Pock says. I roll my eyes and pick at my nails. I have run out of every other indication that I'm bored. If this doesn't work, then I'm in for a hell ride. She stares at me blankly and I huff a long sigh.

"So I'm going to ask you again. How have you been feeling lately?"

"I told you, better." I smirk. She clenches her teeth and stand up. I stay seated as she walks over to her coffee maker. I look around. The walls are filled with posters of teens with their heads in their hands and quotation marks filled with things like, "Katie didn't like it when I laughed at her," and, "It just gets worse and worse as I keep it bottled up,". Vomit. Ever since my mum died, I have been having counseling sessions. By force. I don't have a choice. they thing it will help me become a "good girl". So far they have failed miserably. Pock sits back down with a fresh cup of coffee. She sets it down on a cup coaster and looks at me.

"Do you want to talk about the marks on your legs yet?" She asks, her eyes hazy with compassion. I chew the inside of my lip to suppress a smile and decide to throw her a bone...

"No. It's too painful..." I hang my head and pull my skirt down over the scratches on my thighs.

"It's okay to talk to me about it. Why have you been doing it?" Pock asks. The thing is, I'm not self-harming. I just use my finger nail and scratch away until it looks believable. I do it so the counselors think I have something to talk about. I still hang my head, trying to wipe the smile off my face. I replace it with an extremely blank expression and look back up at her. I keep my mouth shut. She has leant forward, like all counselors do when they think they're on the brink of something. I try not to laugh at the look on her face, but I can't help it. I let out a small burst of laughter and she looks at me with a strange expression on her face. I chew the inside of my lip to stop myself and go back to the blank expression.