------ 'Everynight when the moon comes back, I always wish for eternal slumber. The clock chimes twelve when everybody's asleep, and I begin my incoherent routine. It's so awful, people would say. My scissors and I were best of friends. Bloodbound to this life I hold, it's such a shame that lies were told. Truth was never something I've knowned. A distant memory, perhaps? It drifts away when I recall, it's something I need and fear. I'm so cowardly in fact, that when blood spills onto my friend, I faint. Is it perhaps I'm anemic?' ----- Emo. Goth. Slut. I've been labled those things everytime I went to school. This façade I put up is supposed to be a substitute for my broken barrier. It's not enough, I'd always think, so I put up a show to entertain. I'm so vulnerable, really. I'm one of those chicks that "wear their hearts on their sleeves", literally. An arrow through the heart tattoo on my left shoulder blade. I'd show as many skin as I could, flaunting my well developed body to attract attention. I don't know why I do it. Is it because lust is like a substitute of love? Women hate me. Men adore me. They're wrapped around my fingers, like the little sheep they are. They always visit me to have a good time, and to escape their lovers. Everytime this ridiculous game ends, I roll on my side to grab a cigarette from his pack and turn back around to smoke it. I get high on those fumes, I really do. It revs me up like a drug. Heroin, cocaine, marijuana, you name it. I've done them all. It's not an addiction, hard to believe, it's more like a pain reliever, get what I mean? Of course, they get confiscated. Not that I mind. My client groans and turns on his side, facing me. Trailing kisses down the nape of my neck, looks like he wants another round. Of course, who am I to disobey? My services are very well paid. Back at home, another day, my homework piles up on either sides of my bed. It's like waves crashing onto the bay... No more safety on the gun, I always pretend. It's better to be optimistic, right? Just hold it up to your head, and pull the trigger. Bam. Suicidal movies, they're my favorite. I always wonder if they could sign me up for an audition, I'm desperate to have a taste of death before it actually occurs to me. ------ Homewrecker. Boyfriend stealer. Whore. It seems as if my personal endless river flow of haters have come to scribble meaningless words inside my locker again. "Are you alright? Tears are on your... er... tank top." "Sleeveless shirt," I remind him. I blink once, twice, before looking up. He's not judging me from my zebra lined hair and skanky clothing choices? What's the deal with this customer today? Is he trying to win over a discount? It was what I thought before our eyes met. Black hair, glasses, and white skin. He's like a male counterpart of me, so different and yet the same. "..." I didn't bother answering. Sympathy? Pity? Mixed emotions? His face is unreadable. "Hey, you're the school slut, Sydney, right? How much for tonight?" Figures. ----- I'm on another man's bed, a defensive arm wrapped around my waist. He's asleep, and it's like an automatic trigger in my heart, pulled to let out the tears. Is love something that hard to get? His groan stops me and I wipe my eyes to be cautious. "Syd?" "It's Sydney." I hide my hoarse voice for only a moment, vulnerability is not an option. "Oh... Okay." His nervousness makes me crane my neck. "Hey, was this your first time?" "Curiosity killed the cat." I mumbled under ny breath. Idioms? Pardon, I didn't read a sign where it said your bedroom was located in english class. "Satisfaction brought him back." "..." An uncomfortable silence swept over us, and I decided to go home. "... Bye." I immediately pulled the shirt back on, before being pulled back by this unknown person. "It's Kyle." And with that, I left the room after being dressed, leaving Kyle alone inside his room to look at the ceiling. ----- Twoshot.