Diary of a Boy Stealer

 

 

 

Chapter 1 – Wash the Tears Away

 

In the dark, darkness isn’t scary. Only the things in the dark are.

So says my favorite author, Karen McGill. AKA, my mother. My mother writes beautiful prose. When her words come out, it makes you think.

“Bella,” she says to me, “Someday you’ll learn to write well. You’ll write a story, make up a word, do something to change the world.” She believe that everybody has the power to change the world, most people are just too self-centered to care.

I try to do good. I volunteer at the food pantry. I volunteer at the animal shelter. I pick up trash in the park. I recycle. I watch how long my showers are. I foster rescued kittens and cats. Most people think I prefer the black cats, due to my style.

On a normal day, I wear a leather or suede black skirt with tights or stocking, black gothic boots, and a tank top or crop top that shows my boobs or my belly button ring. Or I wear a black lacy dress with heels.

Honestly, though, I prefer the white cats. The ones with the blue eyes. The ones whose eyes remind me of his. Jared’s. I miss Jared every day. I grieve for him, for his presence. But since he’s moved on, I have no choice but to accept that I’ll never see him again. Alive.

He passed away a few months ago, back in February. It was a cold, snowless night, and Jared and his friends had been drinking. No one survived the fatal crash except for the baby in the backseat of the other car. Her rear-facing child’s seat saved her young life. She’s living with an aunt now.

Anyway, I’m getting off track.

Now I’m furiously scrubbing the toilet, because I don’t want my parents to see that I threw up again last night. I’m used to cleaning. My parents have been making my clean my own room and bathroom for years. And boy, do I clean. Everything has a place, and everything must stay in its place.

My hands are red and raw from the bleach I’ve been using. My red and black hair smells like bleach and cleaners. I throw the paper towel away as soon as I’ve finished scrubbing the toilet, inside and out. I wash my raw hands with the lotion soap that my mother loves so much. I moisturize my pale hands further and study my chipped nail polish. I need a new coat of black polish. And the star on my middle finger has fallen off, probably behind the toilet.

But now it is time for school.

I fix my stockings and grab my crossbody black denim purse and my school satchel. It’s raspberry pink with my initials sewn in. Bella Faye Satch. I don’t like my last name. I like my first two names just fine.

Anyway, I begin the muddy trek to school, about two blocks away. When I reach Timberwood High School, it has already begun to sprinkle. Soon it will pour. I wipe my boots off on the rug, then walk to my locker. My locker is the only one that has cheetah print wallpaper. I open my locker and look into the mirror.

I forgot to put on mascara again. I sigh. I always forget mascara. I’m lucky enough to have long, full, dark lashes naturally, but they could always be better. I also forgot lipstick. Without lipstick, my lips are pale and dry. My blue eyes stare back at my reflection, then I organize my books and quickly add a swipe of red gloss that I keep in my locker for this such purpose.

My hair is flat and lifeless still. Months ago, before Jared died, I added black stripes to my dark red hair. I like the look.

I gasp as my heel is kicked. I turn and glare at Mean Girl Number One, Jessica Frye. She’s sour because I beat her at cheerleading freshman year and Jared chose me that year instead of her. These days, she wears the frostiest expression, the frostiest eye shadow, and the pinkest lipstick. Her eyes are lined to the extreme. It’s not a good look for her.

Today, she’s wearing the tightest jeans I’ve ever seen her wear, with the highest, pinkest stilettos, and the loudest, most garish top in her closet. It’s got pink and purple and yellow and red and green print. It flatters her large breasts, but not much else.

She glares at me for a moment, then moves on. She’s always hated me. Ever since the moment I beat her in cheerleading.

I study the school crowds. Everyone is with friends or at their lockers, searching for books. I quickly find mine and move on.

My first class, Art, is by the cafeteria. And the worst classroom. Mrs. Revere, the History teacher. She hates me. She yells, insults, and threatens me with detention. So I don’t bother to do the work. You don’t respect me, I won’t respect you. I’ve called her a bitch to my parents multiple times. They just say that I need to learn to deal with hard people. If I could kill the bitch, I would.

“What are you wearing?” Revere taunts as I enter the Art room. “A skirt in the middle of the rainy season? I should e-mail your dad!”

“Go ahead,” I snap. “He already knows.”

“Revere, leave her alone,” says Mr. Sweet, the Art teacher. “Don’t be such a bitch.”

This is why I like Mr. Sweet. He knows how Mrs. Revere treats me, and sticks up for me.

“Seriously, I’m complaining again,” says Mr. Sweet to me. “This has gone far enough.”

I smile weakly. It’s been a while since he’s complained. Unfortunately, the principal, Veronica, can’t do anything because Revere has tenure.

I went into the Art Room and got out a large paper and acrylic paints. I got paintbrushes and filled a cup with water.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.04.2020

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