I am a monster. Monsters are supposed to be horrible. They are supposed to be mean and scary and ugly. They are supposed to want to kill. They are supposed to know what they even are. But not me. I am just a monster- a killing machine. I shouldn't be alive. I am not worth life. I should die. I am not a person.
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Black hair, down to my shoulders, pin straight. Unusually pale skin. Almost all gold eyes, described as green with lots and lots of gold flecks. Straight teeth. Small, pointy ski-slope nose. That ultimately describes the girl looking back in the mirror. Drew Red. Me. The Monster. The Killer. What ever you want to call me.
First off, I am a Monster. And I know what you're thinking. Ugh. Another vampire story, but no Edward Cullen! No. I am not a vampire. Or a werewolf (sorry Jacob fans) or one of Dr. Frankensteins creations or the Boogie Man. I am...just a Monster. I don't know how to describe it. A killer. Maybe I'm not a Monster. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I should be locked far, far away from civilization. I wonder about that a lot, maybe too much.
But the killings. Three times a week, an innocent person dies because of me. (I try to get bad people like murderers and people who would touch a girl, but its hard to control once...it kicks in.) It starts with a tingling all over my body. I try to stop it every time, and if it happens during the day I can. But at night...I turn. My physical appearance doesn't change, just my mind. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide. Anyway, the tingling. And then my world turns red, everything the same color. One word crosses my mind: kill. I can't stop myself then. I go wild on the streets of Oregon, and the first person I see is dead meat. (This usually happens in an ally, where no one can see.) I don't remember what happens then. They die, obviously. The next morning is the worst, waking up next to a dead, rotting body with their blood on your hands.
And the police never catch me. I'm sure there is proof of my me their body, but the police somehow never find it. It's like I'm being protected, somehow. In case you're wondering, my parents don't know either. I sometimes imagine my parents giving me the talk about being a Monster, kind of like the "birds and the bees" talk. It would go something like this:
"Sweety, we need to talk to you. I haven't told you yet, but you're some type of monster that no one knows about. Have any questions?"
With my fiery personality (and I mean fiery, and also a bit smart-alecky) I would probably respond to that by throwing a shoe, or something. Maybe a brick.
Now, just so you can learn a little bit more about me, I'm popular. Like, over the top popular. The alpha of a very, very stupid pack called the "in crowd". But don't get me wrong. I definitely don't want to be popular. Actually, the only reason I'm popular is because of the looks and the personality. And, on the first day of school, I didn't know Abercrombie and Fitch was "in". But seriously, I don't want to be popular. I've tried everything in the book (is there a book on how to be unpopular? I need it.) to become unpopular. I've hung out with the losers (they're popular because of me after hanging out with them) I've even flipped everyone off. NOTHING WORKS. And why, might you ask, do you not want to be popular? Because, every single freakin' day, a girl says,
"Oh, Drew, you're sooooooooo perfect.. I wish I was just like you!" And I'm reminded that I'm not perfect, in any way, shape or form. I am a monster. A killing machine. And we're back to the beginning.
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Ok, so how do you like it? Comment and vote, please!!! And, to all of those who are wondering, I had this book posted, but I accidentally deleted it. I don't own the cover picture, NO COPY RIGHT INTENDED!!!!