In high school, almost all of us are melodramatic, passionate, observant about the physicality of the world, and incapable of communicating with our parents. Scarlet Marie's story captures the self-pitying intensity of adolescence. (UPDATE: I added the link to the song! Sorry about that.)
she's sitting at the table with a bowl of wheaties in front of her - the breakfast of champions - and her mother asks how her night was.
she could say:
"i thought about going to the cathedral, where i would spend the entire evening sitting in a pew and talking to the alcoholic priest, the one with bloodshot robin's egg eyes. we would talk about redemption and saints and he'd tell me i was a good enough girl to be canonized, if only i would die. my heart would beat too quickly and my skin would drain enough for all of my veins to show, and the moonlight would kiss my skin through the stained glass like the hand of god. the father would take swigs from the flask that he pulled from the black folds of his vestment and hold his celtic rosary in the palm of his hand and say prayers in latin to me, and upon leaving, i'd be newly saturated with the promises of a stunning afterlife."
"it would have been better had i been a hooker being f****d behind the bar, with some dirty john whispering in my ear, telling me that i was easy and loose and not worth the hundred bucks. he'd pin me against the wall, and the bricks would give me scrapes on my bare belly, and i would wake up with purple fingerprints on my hips and feel beautiful."
"well, as i drove along the highway at seventy miles per hour, i considered unlatching the car door and throwing myself against the cement wall that runs across the side of the road. i would smash my face on it and the skin would peel from my bone like white shells from hard-boiled eggs. crimson would flake upon my cheekbones and my neck would snap and my eyelids would be torn back, and the car would keep going and run over my thighs to leave tire-track bruises. saliva would fly from my mouth and i would crumple into a heap and it would all happen in slow motion. the ambulance men would come to retrieve me and find me with a toothless smile on my face, blood lining the insides of my ears, and they'd talk about how sad all of it was."
but instead, she scoops her cereal meticulously into her spoon, watching as the milk pools atop the silver, and murmurs,
"it was fine."
Based on "Fully Alive," by Flyleaf
Sparklers, something tells me you don't like the unconventional lowercasing going on here. Am I right? And what do you think of the story?