A goth story

Chapter 1

“Wow, I’m surprised the food tastes this good.” I said to my newly-made friend Anecia.

“Yeah, well that’s only cause we have the nice lunch-lady today.” She said taking a bite of her baked potato.

Then out of no where Danny Worsnop and Andy Sixx walk in to the lunch room at Cedar Springs Mental Rehabilitation Hospital, or as everyone else calls it; the mental hospital.

“Oh, my, god!” I screamed. “What the hell are they doing here?”

“They work here. Sometimes…” Anecia said like it was no big deal

. . .

“Damn. If only that was real… But then I’d still be there…” I said when I woke up from my dreaded dream. Then I soon drifted off back into sleep.

“Cross my heart and hope you die, left by the roadside. Karma’s a bitch, right?” My alarm went off on my phone.

‘Aww, come on. Why does it already have to be 5?’ I thought to myself. ‘Oh yay, first day of school. Going back to all the bullying. Yay.’

I got ready putting on my Converse knock-offs that I had spray painted black, my black and grey skinny jeans, a Black Veil brides t-shirt, and my black fishnet glove. I re-painted all of my nails “Black Heart” black, and did my eyeliner just how I did every day, aka, thick as hell. I put on my dark red lipstick and straightened my long, black and purple hair.

“I’m leaving!” I shouted to my mom who was still half asleep, grabbed my draw-string bag and my longboard, and headed to school.

I had hoped that this year would be different. That there would be at least one other goth kid, but, like always, I was wrong. No goth kids, not even one person wore a hint of black anything, all dressed up in their bright neon shit that made me want to barf.

This year, like every year, I felt alone… because I was.

I rode my longboard over to Wal-Mart and bought three more cans of black spray paint.

“What, are you some kind of punk street artist?” the neon-dressed cashier asked.

“I am who I am, and I’m gonna do what I want to do.” I said handing her fiveteen dollars, grabbing my bag of paint, and walked out the store.

“Damn fuckers. Can’t they just get a life and leave everyone else’ alone?” I mumbled to myself on my way home. “Whatever.”

I passed a bus stop and saw a goth boy, about my age sitting on the broken, wooden bench.

I couldn’t help from staring, which I hated myself for it. But it was another goth person, it seemed like I would never meet anyone who was like me.

He stared back, and I kept riding.

Later on that day, I went in my room and painted my walls black.

“What the hell are you doing?!” my mom yelled when she walked into my room.

I looked at her like ‘really? Can’t you see what I’m doing?,’ and continued spraying my wall.

She gave me the death glare and slammed my door shut.

‘Fuck off.’ I thought to myself, and turned on Asking Alexandria, blowing out my speakers.

When I was done, I rode a few blocks away from my house to a hill I like to sit at and just think and draw. When I was at the bottom of the hill I looked up, and he was there, blasting Attack Attack. I decided to keep walking up the hill to the spot where I usually sit; which was about ten feet away from him.