Creative Writing
New me; new house; new school; new everything...
That’s what the annoying, obnoxious creature inside my addled brain repeated over and over; a moronic mantra.
I loathe them and their cheap, over – the – counter perfume, their pathetic pouts constantly asking me “Are you ok?”
Obviously I’m not “ok”: Trapped in this terrible tirade of torture... I’m Bo, currently 16 years old and counting down days to a well-deserved death; I have a scar straight down my face to my neck; just moved house to start afresh and I have “problems.”
Today is the end of the first week at my new school; it isn’t worse or better than all the rest; to me all the students here are brainwashed organisms; roaming around on my desert island of despair.
As usual, time crawls mercilessly by as I escort myself through the labyrinth of classes and all I see is a sinister sea of faces fixed in their glare at me; the ‘freak’. Stamped! – As a negative no one, just another name to add to the lengthy list of: Ugly, good for nothing, emo, freak, life’s futile failure. My future decided for me before any words are allowed to crawl out of my paralysed mouth. As the next lifeless class looms, it is apparent how differently they dress compared to me: figure fitting tops, bright colourful dresses, shorts, skirts. Attractive hair, long and straight or fashionable up-dos, in direct contrast to my black mass like a bin bag full of nightmares! Me, in tight jeans, an unflattering baggy top, hiding my hideousness - They’re beyond compare.
I know what they see: a lumbering beast with hair in which only rats would lay their vermin infested eggs; unsightly horror, a face only a mother could love, only she doesn’t
“Bo, can you answer this question?”
I quickly snap out of my deep thought and lift my head to a gaggle of eyes fixated on me like hyenas hunting the weak. Their predatory gaze willed me to mess up and embarrass myself but as I replied, quick as a flash with the correct answer, a stunned
That’s what the annoying, obnoxious creature inside my addled brain repeated over and over; a moronic mantra.
I loathe them and their cheap, over – the – counter perfume, their pathetic pouts constantly asking me “Are you ok?”
Obviously I’m not “ok”: Trapped in this terrible tirade of torture... I’m Bo, currently 16 years old and counting down days to a well-deserved death; I have a scar straight down my face to my neck; just moved house to start afresh and I have “problems.”
Today is the end of the first week at my new school; it isn’t worse or better than all the rest; to me all the students here are brainwashed organisms; roaming around on my desert island of despair.
As usual, time crawls mercilessly by as I escort myself through the labyrinth of classes and all I see is a sinister sea of faces fixed in their glare at me; the ‘freak’. Stamped! – As a negative no one, just another name to add to the lengthy list of: Ugly, good for nothing, emo, freak, life’s futile failure. My future decided for me before any words are allowed to crawl out of my paralysed mouth. As the next lifeless class looms, it is apparent how differently they dress compared to me: figure fitting tops, bright colourful dresses, shorts, skirts. Attractive hair, long and straight or fashionable up-dos, in direct contrast to my black mass like a bin bag full of nightmares! Me, in tight jeans, an unflattering baggy top, hiding my hideousness - They’re beyond compare.
I know what they see: a lumbering beast with hair in which only rats would lay their vermin infested eggs; unsightly horror, a face only a mother could love, only she doesn’t
“Bo, can you answer this question?”
I quickly snap out of my deep thought and lift my head to a gaggle of eyes fixated on me like hyenas hunting the weak. Their predatory gaze willed me to mess up and embarrass myself but as I replied, quick as a flash with the correct answer, a stunned