The world is a horrible place.
It is no longer the happy, green little planet that dinosaurs were privileged to own for a brief amount of time. No amount of sugar can coat it anymore. Pollution paints our lakes, oceans and land a crude color and we, mankind, are to blame for that. If that isn't bad enough, the newspapers are littered with articles about war, random shootings, crimes, poverty and downright lousiness. Every day at 8 o'clock sharp, the news reporters have new material about any newfound horrors and broadcast it to the world and we eagerly take it in, consuming it entirely like a greedy child hungry for its piece of cake. We should be in shock but in reality, we're not. So much has been happening over the years, so much information about various horrible events is being broadcasted to us, that we slowly but surely are becoming uneffected by them.
Especially in my hometown of Anchorage, Alaska where news about another war starting in the middle east or another violent shooting happening in the Midwest has become part of the daily routine. With the highest crime rate in the country, who would still be surprised about another murder or a missing person here and there?
Media, casual conversations and even books only speed up the process of desensitization of violent acts. I have to admit that I too don't become as upset as I used to as a child whenever I hear something horrible has happened. Just like the changes in the weather, it has become a part of my daily life.
This has ruined the joy of watching horror movies, for example. When life around you is so violent, I no longer feel the excitement when a person is brutally impaled by a harpoon. The impact of it though, of that person's death really gets to me emotionally and I usually lie under the covers for hours, petrified of falling asleep and becoming another victim of the harpoon killer. I might as well be the cowardly lion and join Dorothy on the yellow brick road. . .
Violence in general, though, doesn't agitate me anymore. It happens all around and I know there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I know as I have seen those acts of violence happen to others and also to me.
I don't know if I had it coming. I mean, I know I'm not the prettiest one out there as I don't dress up in the latest fashion. I just don't know what would suit me and fashion in general confuses me, I mean, what's really up with crop tops? Even the girls here in Anchorage wear them in the middle of winter! Fashion is just too much of a bother which is why I stick to basic neutral colors and comfy clothes. No skinny jeans for me, I prefer ones that will not constrict my blood circulation, thank you very much! I never wear any makeup because it would just give me pimples and I have always suffered from low self-esteem issues which is partly due to my quirks. I call my OCD tendencies quirks as a means of coping with them. At least that's what my shrink tells me. . .
Okay, let's face it. I'm a pretty clear target. Might as well draw a big red circle on my forehead.
I've had these quirks since I was small and they in turn were tiny to begin with. They didn't really bother me until one of my classmates laughed at the claps that I do whenever someone praises me. The teasing from the other kids kind of escalated as more of my quirks surfaced. They either found them highly amusing or very annoying.
You know how bullying starts? Usually it only takes one person to make it happen. It can start off small; one kid throwing wads of paper when the teacher isn't looking; whisperings and talking behind one's back. The girls in the class were really talented at that. I even learned some new adjectives and nouns thanks to them! But when that doesn't give the bully some satisfaction, if you're not miserable enough already, it can become physical. That was the boys' territory.
I was ten when it reached the high point. It was shortly after P.E. I noticed that the girls had all showered pretty quickly and exited the locker room in such speed that it was as they still thought that we were doing a 100 metre race. I was left all alone and anxious. I knew something was up; the girls, Veronica Mathers in particular, had been eyeing me carefully throughout P.E. and talking quietly amongst themselves. I skipped the shower alltogether because I wanted to get the hell out of there and get back home, into my sanctuary. I was in the middle of putting my pants on when the boys entered the locker room.
"Hey, nice panties," said Micah Sanders, one of the taller boys of the group. "You freak!" he added with a sneer. The other boys laughed in a sycaphantic chorus.
I looked down at my red polka dots underwear and found nothing wrong with them but the mocking tone of his voice made me blush in shame and I quickly put the pants on. I grabbed my coat and made a beeline for the door but three of them blocked it, evil grins plastered on their all too eager faces.
"You're not going anywhere until you do one of your sideshows," drawled Micah and he grabbed my arm and threw me harshly into the shower hall. The others followed and formed a semi-circle around me and him. "C'mon, clap your hands or something!"
His distasteful gaze sent shivers down my spine and I was filled with dread. I couldn't do the claps even if I wanted to. I had to be praised by someone to do the claps. "I-I c-can't," I stammered, trying with all my might to become one with the shower wall.
"Do it, you piece of shit!" he shouted angrily and I flinched at the sudden outburst, cowering even more in fear.
"Careful, Micah," said one of the boys guarding the door. "Not too loud or the teach will hear you."
The situation was becoming too anxious for me to handle and I started to hyperventilate, sinking slowly to the ground and holding my arms in front of my ever-increasing paled face. I wanted to scream for help but I knew that Micah would punish me physically if I did so.
"Something's wrong with her," one of them mumbled.
"Well, I'm not leaving until I see the freak perform its tricks," growled Micah and waved his clenched fist threatingly at me.
I was clenching my own fists, digging the fingernails deep into my palms. I was trying to resist the urge to bite on the flesh around my fingernails till they bled. It was one of my worst habits that surfaced whenever someone was angry with me. When I didn't comply with his ludicrous request, Micah grew frustrated and hit me on the arm. I gasped in pain, feeling it blossom in electrifying shocks that went through my arm. Tears threatened to cascade down my face and not being the hero, I let them fall.
That only angered Micah more. "I-did-not-ask-for-tears!" he grunted as he landed each punch on my arms and legs. My head was saved from the blows because I was smart enough to shield them with my arms.
"Someone's coming!" the guard boy whispered urgently. "Haul ass!"
The boys skittered out of the locker one by one, leaving Micah and me alone. I was still sitting on the floor, sobbing softly. He grabbed me by the coat and hissed:
"If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you!"
And he drew up a small knife from his jeans pocket and showed it to me. My eyes widened in fear and I nodded vigorously.
Micah left me there before the janitor came in to clean. He had seen my puffy, blood-shot eyes but I left the place before he could inquire any further.
I kept this between me and the bullies. Telling an adult about this never helped, it only made things worse. The bullies, especially Micah, were smart. They never hit my face because they didn't want any visible marks so they always targeted my arms and legs. The bruises were never really big so I could conceal them with my clothes. I never told my parents what happened, they always assumed I had sustained the injuries during P.E. (which I tried to avoid as much as possible because they would always pound on me in the shower - less likelihood of running into a teacher there).
I thought I would have to endure this all the way through high school graduation but unbelievably, luck was on my side when Sophie Vidali approached me during freshman year. She was the same age as me and we were in most of the same classes, although she rarely showed up in some of them. She belonged to the other group; the ones who smoked either weed or cigarettes, drank booze and did not partake in any athletic activities that is usually the norm in high school.
For some reason, she wanted to be my friend. She told me that she found my quirks amusing but thankfully not the kind of amusing you would make fun of it all the time (although as time went by, she DID occasionally make fun of them). She also showed sympathy towards my plight with the bullies. I was suspicious of her approach though. I had grown overly distrustful of people since the bullying to the point of paranoia and I couldn't quite put my finger on Sophie. I had the gnawing suspicion that she was only becoming my friend for her benefit because she had been getting into trouble at school, that I was her scapegoat of sorts but gradually I began to accept her friendliness. For one, I finally had someone to talk to beside my family and two, she kept the others at bay. I will be forever grateful to her for that act alone.
I soon found out that our friendship was not meant to last long because Sophie moved away from Anchorage with her mother and stepfather after our freshman year. I was devastated. Although it was a shallow friendship in which I only hung out with her and her group of friends sometime after school, I considered her my only friend that I could confide in. She didn't really share anything real with me, only stuff happening on tv or what kinds of troubles her friends had gotten into but never really anything about her. It was like she didn't want to tell me, and although that sometimes hurt I decided not to pry. I would give her some time to fully trust me and then she would finally confide something in me. Well, that plan went down the drain. . . At least one good thing came from her move, she had made it sure that the others would leave me alone all throughout high school.
Remember when I said that I was desensitized? I really thought I had been, I thought I had witnessed it all throughout my years of being bullied. I thought nothing could really faze me, thanks to tv, movies, books and my own experiences. I was wrong, sooooo wrong.
I was brought back to harsh reality when a man tried to rob me. I was nineteen and I was walking home from campus. The guy suddenly appeared from behind a dumpster and to my horror, he was pointing a gun at me.
"Give me your wallet," he said in a hoarse voice, like he hadn't drunk anything all day.
I was stunned, paralyzed. I knew crime was common but thanks to my dad, I had always known which were the safest places to go and which places to avoid. My usual way to and from campus had always been safe but I guess it can never be safe at all times.
"Are you deaf, you bitch?! I said gimme your wallet!" he snapped and aimed his gun at my head.
I gasped and fumbled with my bag, my hands shaking, not from the cold wintergale but from complete terror.
"C'mon!!" he urged and cocked his gun.
I shrieked, dropping my bag and putting my hands up in the air. My shrieking, I realized a second later, had been a very bad idea because I could alert other potential walkers to my plight and my thug knew that as well.
He swore and took careful aim. I dropped to my knees and clenched my eyes shut. I could not believe I would die at the hands of a petty thief. I had always pictured my death to be too mundane, in a hospital bed at an old age or overwork myself to death. There was so much I had never done before, I wanted to travel (good luck with that with all of my "quirks" in the way), I wanted to finish my education (only one more year left, goddamnit!) and hopefully find a good job (fat chance with this economy!), find someone to spend my life with (again, small chance of that happening because of my awkwardness and "quirks") but most of all, I wanted to live. I was sobbing quietly and flinched when I heard the gunshot.
"What the fuck?" I heard the guy mumble.
I didn't feel any unbearable pain on my body and I assumed that he must have missed or something, so I took my chances and peeked up through one eye. Smoke billowed lazily from the barrel of the gun but someone with a small and slender figure was blocking the view. I couldn't see who it was as the person was facing the man who was gazing forwards with a terrified look on his face.
"What the FUCK are you?!" he screamed, the fear in his voice evident in the high pitch.
The girl cocked her head slightly to the side as if not really understanding his question, then took a step forward and I think I heard some weird hissing sounds coming from her. The man backed away before cocking his gun again and pulled the trigger. I screamed again, pressing my hands on my ears. Nothing happened, not even a flinch from her. But I was sure that this time the man had hit his target. The girl chuckled in a low voice and then wagged her finger at him.
"Not gonna work on me," she sing-songed brightly and a fragment of a memory burst into my mind at the sound of her voice. It's been four years but I recognized that voice!
Then suddenly she leaped on the man with such speed that it took both me and the man by surprise. She landed on his chest and the man hit the ground hard, screaming and waving his gun around. She slapped the gun away from his hand and with a snarl, bent down and ripped into the man's throat with her mouth. Blood spewed from his throat and the man tried to pry the girl off of him with feeble attempts but she had a strong grip on him and held him tight as she sucked his blood like a vacuum cleaner. The man gurgled his last cry and I watched with horror as his body twitched a couple of times before he became very still.
If I thought that I had been paralyzed when the man tried to rob me, I was completely petrified as I watched the girl rise up from the corpse, the man she had just killed, and face me. She was wearing typical goth clothes: ripped up jeans, a mesh shirt beneath a violet tank top. Her hair was black as the feathers of a raven except for the ends which were dyed red. Red from all the blood? She took one last look at the corpse, a look full of contempt before giving it a sharp kick in the belly. I flinched and gave a little squeak. I hastened to cover my mouth.
Her violet eyes stared coldly at me and her mouth and neck was smeared with blood and bits of flesh from the man she had just ruthlessly killed. Her lips, slightly parted because of her set of sharp,fanged teeth turned into a sneer.
"Hello Leia," she said. "Aren't you gonna thank me for saving your ass yet again?!"
My teeth were chattering, the goosebumps were taking over my body. I was becoming physically ill of dread and utter fear. I couldn't move and I realized that I couldn't outrun such a terrifying beast. I thought I had witnessed it all. Turns out I was so wrong. I should be happy but I'm terrified. The creature standing before me looked exactly like my best friend, Sophie Vidali.