Different

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Mom,

I'm in my last period, Math. Remember how you helped me figure factoring out? Well, I forgot. So I went to the attic the other day to look for some of our old notes.

You know me, I get distracted so easily. I ended up surfing through a box of you and dad's old memories. I saw a picture from your prom! You looked so pretty!

I miss you.

Like I said, I'm in Math right now, sneaking in another probably useless letter. I think you're watching me as my pen moves across the pad. I hope you are.

Anyways, after this, I'm going to the library. Why? Well, me and Tiara got into a lil' squabble and now, our punishment is that we have to 'arrange the books'.

What kind of **** is that?

Sorry for my language. You probably have a grim expression right now at that, with your lips pursed.

Back to Tiara. Were you watching when I flung the spaghetti at her face? Were you disappointed with me? Or were you sitting in a seat in Heaven, eating a bowl of popcorn and cheering for me to shove some ice down her shirt?

Knowing you, it'll be the latter.

So, Ms. Tomlinson is giving me this look now, probably knowing that I'm not paying attention.

So I gotta bail.

I love you, Mom. And Dad too. I miss you so so soo much.

Love,

Natasha


P.S. I found out about Jayden. How could I have not known about this??

 

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Scars. They can mean many things. It's the way present these scars.

If you wear long-sleeved shirts to cover them, and walk around with a smile on your face, then you might have an abusive home. You can try to be strong, but inside, you're breaking.

If you hunch your back when you walk, not talking to anyone, not caring if your scars were visible, then most likely, you might be suicidal.

Or there's the instance when you have a scar, just one, and you don't mind it. Maybe it has a bandaid over it, or medicine smeared delicately on it. Maybe you fell of your bike or something.

Then there's the last category. People who confidently walked around, head held high, displaying their scars as if it's the Imperial War Museum. In a way, it is. These are the scars of those who fought bravely in the war, for our country, for you and me.

Those are the best kind of scars.

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"This. Is. So. Ew." Tiara picked up a book that already had yellow pages, and was smelling suspiciously like dead rat.

I wrinkled my nose with her. For the first time in, oh, a hundred years, I actually agreed with Tiara. Arranging books are really so 'ew'.

"Tell me. How many more minutes?" Tiara whined.

I glanced at her, not bothering to check my watch, "You just asked me that a minute ago. I told you, an hour left."

She groaned and plopped down a red leather chair, "Tell me if Stanley comes." she laid her head, staring at the ceiling.

Stanley, the security guard in charge of watching over us, had gone into a so-called 'break'. He's probably in the lobby watching ESPN or something.

"Tiara. We have to actually arrange these together " I said, looking pointedly at her.

She rolled her eyes, "Fine. Pass me a book."

I looked for the ickest and oldest-looking book I can find and throw it at her.

"-****--!" she said, and I turne to her. She was clutching her index finger, and the book I had thrown was on the floor.

"You gave me a ****in paper cut!" she hissed.

"Well maybe if you actually come and get the books yourself, you might give yourself a papercut!" my comeback doesn't make any sense but I was angry.

"Maybe if you hadn't rattled me out, I would be in a hair salon now!" she said back.

"Maybe if you hadn't tripped me, none of this would be happening right now!" I retorted.

"Maybe if you weren't such. A. Self-centered. A-class. *****, we wou-"

She got cut of by a sound.

We both froze. W-What was that?

Fear gripped our hearts as we realized what the sound had been...























A gunshot.

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