I clenched the wires in my hand tightly, holding them close to me like my life depended on it as I was told the shocking news. We were moving again. Why did this always happen? I had just made a friend here, too. After years of being tortured by everyone at school, I finally had someone to defend me and laugh with me when some fake whore insulted me, and now I have to move again!
"Where are we moving?" I demanded, listening to Mötley Crüe through my right ear, my parents through my left.
"Baltimore." My mother replied, squeezing father's hand with a small smile.
I groaned, "You're fucking kidding me."
"Language." Father reminded me, looking pointedly at my siblings next to me.
"You're really doing this to me; to us!" I stood up, placing the second headphone in my ear and ran out after grabbing my bag by the door. I needed some time to think this over and be my little, depressed self.
I got to my tree, where I'd spent most of my time as a kid, and scaled it quickly, coming to the fork and dropping myself onto the blanket I'd hauled up here when I was little. I had to go through this all over again, didn't I? The bullying, the not fitting in, the not wanting to fit in whilst mom tried to get me to stop the "goth shit?" This sucked.
I dug my hand in my bag and rummaged around before coming up with my pencil and sketchbook. I'd picked it up discreetly the last time mom had sent me to go grocery shopping with her credit card and even gotten myself a few pencils. She was terrible at the bills, and luckily dad hadn't ratted me out, so she had no clue I even drew. Sure, she saw a few doodles on my notes and sometimes on my napkins at restaurants, but she never saw my real sketches.
I scratched at the paper with the graphite until a picture arose, of a boy with a bright smile. I flipped to the next page and did the same thing, until I saw the same boy come up, this time he was hunched over, holding his arms to himself as if he was in pain. I knew that hunch; it was one that you would make to say that life was screwing you over; something that told everyone to fuck off because you didn't care anymore, that you were losing yourself. It was the same one I had the day my family first moved here, four years ago. Grade five, ten years old, back before I started dying my hair and listening to pop punk music. Before my life truly started. I was so upset; I ran off and found a lighter, managed to get a secluded place for me to let out all my pain. I burned myself bad, and told my mother that I had gotten to close to a fire I had lit for myself to keep warm. She didn't know the difference; but dad did. He knew those burns, knew they weren't a mistake. He was right, of course.
Next thing I knew, I had another drawing of the boy, but this time he was smiling widely, almost like he was laughing. His eyes had a twinkle, his cheeks had dimples, and his laugh lines were apparent. I assumed he was maybe mid-twenties, he sort of looked like someone familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with the 27th text from Sarah, my 14 year old sister. She was worried about me; but my parents hadn't called a single time. I assumed she didn't either, considering I was always called fat and humiliating when we were home alone together. This was probably her way of getting something else she wanted. I turned my electronic on airplane mode and turned the volume of music up.
After another hour of calming down and drawing, I found my courage to return home. I put on a poker face and opened the door, completely disregarding my family as I stalked up to my room, where I slammed the door and continued with my drawings.
A week later, I'd said goodbye to my one and only friend, Matthew, after packing up all my stuff. I was standing on the sidewalk, hugging him closely. My chemically black hair tickled him until he sneezed and he immediately blamed Satan for it. I laughed and told him that I'd Skype him the first chance I got and he agreed whole-heartedly. He also told me to keep an eye out for a fit, tan boy with a taste for punk music while I was gone, too. I said I didn't make promises I couldn't keep as that was that. Soon, I was in the car and waving to him like a mad man whilst pointing to my wrist, where we had gotten matching tattoos. The batman symbol, since we were huge nerds. That was the only thing mom actually approved of on me. Other than that, I was the most disappointing child she could ask for, which made sense since there was me, my sister and my brother. I guess she really wanted those perfect two, with their bright blue eyes and blond hair. My hair was originally white, but I had dyed it black during a sleepover with Matty a while back. The blood vessels in my eyes had burst when I was small, which gave off an appearance of red, giving me a horrible nickname for the rest of my life; albino. I understand that it's the technical term to my disease, or whatever you want to call it, but I didn't understand that at age six. All I knew back then was that I didn't like being called that, which lead to me being called to the principal's office after beating up anyone who called me albino. I always wear contacts to make my eyes brown, they make it hard for me to see, but it's much better than looking like a vampire.
I'm a strange, broken girl, who's never going to be fixed, because nobody wants a broken girl with missing pieces.