Death By Chainmail

Chapter One

I log onto my laptop for the third pointless time today. I honestly don't know why I bother any more. This laptop and I have been enemies for a long sea of time.

A flood of offline messages almost drown me as people sent their stone-cold opinions on me from however long ago it might have been.

"You're such a joke, Kim."

"Does your face hurt? Because it's killing me."

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Why don't you go have a cry... after all, that's all you're good at, isn't it?"

I close each and every one, like they closed my heart to faith in people. I silently debate with myself whether or not to sign onto my torturous Facebook account. That was more unkind to me than my laptop ever had been, but the hate mail had to be erased at some point.

I instantly regretted pressing enter. I have only one notification. This should be a relief; a reassurance that they're leaving me alone, but I know this can never be. I click on the little red number, and in an instant I understand why there is only a number one. My hate mail has been redirected somewhere worse.

Somewhere much, much worse; somewhere with 5, 024 fans. Somewhere called The Kimberly Daniels Is A Slag Association.

That in itself is painful enough; that they've publicised their hatred for me and have been joined by so many others who do not even know me- but when I see the name of the admin I can't take it anymore. Daffodil Rodgers. Best friend through infancy, primary, then no longer. High-school made me an outcast; turned me into a "loser"- a creature no self respecting teenager would want to associate with.

It turned Daffodil into a monster, but a beautiful monster, the exact opposite of the loser species- long, straight hair with strands every beautiful shade of blonde; eyes the colour of melted chocolate; so easy to be swept away in.

I could be beautiful too, if the adjudicators took the time to look at me. Dead straight red hair; pale green eyes. But in the prison they call high-school, that wasn't beauty. Beauty was anything that made boys fall at your feet.

In other words, not me.

Just as the words of Ashlee Golde told me I was only good for, I burst into tears. I run out of my house and away from it all. I don't know where I am running to. I don't know where I will end up or what direction I am headed; what streets I am taking. I'm not sure of anything anymore.

All that I know is that I need to get away.