But Now We're Stressed Out

The emo cult

Jackson recoiled and actually moved away from me.  The look of pure disgust hurt a lot though. 

I tried to get up, but Jackson kicked my arm.  I went sprawling back to the ground, my face landing heavily.  Dirt was smeared across my cheek now.

Jackson grabbed my hair and forcefully pulled me upwards.   He rammed my head forward, causing me to hit the support poles for the swing.

I cried out as pain seared through my nose.  Hot blood instantly started gushing out of it.  Jackson pulled a fist back and punched me in the cheek before I could comprehend anything.

I fell back to the ground, now holding my throbbing cheek.  Jackson laughed at me, kicking me sharply in the side.

"Maybe Prince won't like you anymore if I mess up that face of yours,"  Jackson purred, pulling me back up by my hair. 

He punched me in the eye, making the bruise come back from my dad that I had tried to hard to hide. 

Jackson resorted to just kicking me, landing shark blows all down my side.  But when he reached down to pull me up again, I shoved upwards, knocking him off balance.

While he righted himself, I bolted.  I'm tired and weak from lack of sleep and food but I ran like hell.  I ran as far and as fast as I could.

I didn't care where I ended up, I just had to get away from Jackson.  I could hear him yelling at me, his loud footsteps following me.

"Come back you emo fuck!"  He screamed.  His voice sent panic through me.  I need out.  I need somewhere to hide from him right now. 

I ducked behind a large stone column, refusing to breath until Jackson passed me by.  Only when his footsteps moved away from me did I open my eyes. 

I was hit with an instant wave of depression as I realized where I had run.  The old church loomed at the edge of my peripheral vision.

The cemetery.

As if on auto drive now, I moved into the cemetery.  I fell into an all to familiar path towards the back of the cemetery. 

The dark clouds above threatened rain.  The cemetery already had a creepy feel too it, only enhanced by the weather. 

I entered a section of the cemetery looking for a certain grave.  Eventually I stumbled across the small granite headstone.

Evangeline Pierce

I sighed and ran my hands over the name etched forever in the stone.  I fell down to my knees, not caring how the damp grass soaked my jeans.

I felt like I needed to cry, but instead I felt numb.  I zipped up my hoodie, trying to maintain some sense of warmth. 

I ran my hands over the bottom of the headstone, brushing away bits of dead brush and dirt.  I leaned against the headstone, wishing it was the actual Evangeline and not the cold hunk of granite.

Something moved in my peripheral vision.  I jumped, anxiety shooting through me.  My heart rate sped up as I imagined Jackson walking around the bush to hurt me again.

But instead I saw a familiar black sweater.  I let out an audible sigh of relief. 

Quinn peaked his head out, looking at me with worry written all across his face.  I motioned him out from behind the bush and over to me.

He moved tentatively over, his hands gripping tightly to the black messenger bag he was carrying.

"Hey,"  Quinn mumbled.  "You okay?"

"Yeah,"  I answered.  "Just a run in with Jackson the asshole."

"Am I interrupting something?"  He asked, eying the headstone. 

"No,"  I told him.  "We can talk if you want to."

"Is she your mother?  Grandmother?"  Quinn asked, pointing to the headstone.

"Sister,"  I whispered.  "But she was really sick so don't feel bad."

"Sorry,"  He mumbled awkwardly.  We went to an awkward silence, both of us to socially awkward to initiate conversation.

"Why are you here?"  I couldn't help but asked.  What troubled past does Quinn have besides the serial killer father?

"Oh, uh, the cemetery is good drawing inspiration,"  Quinn explained, pulling a tattered old brown notebook out of his bag. 

He tossed it to me.  I caught it and started looking through all the drawing.  They were all very pretty and detailed charcoal drawings.  They were almost all dark or gothic in some way.

"These are really good,"  I told him.  Quinn blushed and shook his head.

"They're okay,"  He said.  "But thanks anyways."

"No problem,"  I responded.  "We're both pretty damn emo."

"So?"  Quinn asked, fiddling with the hem of his sweater again.

"Wanna be friends?"  I asked.  "We could start an emo cult or something to our lord and savior Geesus."

"Sounds like fun,"  Quinn laughed.

"So, friends?"  I asked.

"Sure,"  He said, a soft smile on his lips.  I held a hand out to him that he gently took.  I pulled him down to sit next to me. 

"Sorry for being a complete jerk a few weeks ago when we ran into each other in the hall,"  I apologized, relieved to finally get it off my chest.

"It's okay, I'm used to it,"  He mumbled with a shrug.

"Used to it,"  Quinn said with a sigh.  "You get used to people knowing you more as the psycho then your actual name."

"That really sucks, I'm sorry,"  I told him sympathetically. 

"It's fine,"  Quinn mumbled.  "Let's talk about something else."

"Are you a fan of American Horror Story?"  I asked him.  Quinn's eyes lit up a bit.

"Yes I do!"  He said, grabbing his notebook and proceeding to show me all the intricate drawing he did of characters.

I think this is the start to a good friendship.