I don't own any of the Twilight characters represented in this story. Just havin' fun with Stephenie Meyer's fiction.
My mother was a good looking woman. She married a good looking man.
They had a good looking daughter.
I wasn't allowed to suffer low self esteem days. I wasn't allowed to huddle up under a duvet with a warm hot chocolate and watch movies.
I was meant to cherish my beauty, brush my long gold hair, wash my face, pluck my eyebrows, moisturise, shave, run.
Run every day. 2 kilometres in the morning, 4 in the afternoon. 100 sit ups. 50 push ups.
I was meant to keep myself in top physical condition, finish at least one book every fortnight, maintain a B in every subject.
I was expected to maintain perfection.
I was expected to cherish my perfection, brush my perfection, wash my perfection, pluck my perfection, moisturise my perfection, shave my perfection, and then run to work off all the perfection that just wasn't perfect enough.
My father was a good looking man. He married a good looking woman.
They had a good looking daughter.
They had a good looking daughter with the whole package: an intellectual mind, money, college scholarships. A bright, bright future ahead of her.
Now, why was that good looking daughter speeding along in a stolen car, three hours past her curfew, with a History exam the following day?
I don't know.
You'd have to ask her.
Because tonight, I'm just Rose.
Rosalie Lilian Hale can go and get screwed.
I relish the sound of a glass window, shattering under a mangled flute.
I swirl around, and, in the same swing, I hear a light crunch as the flute flies through the drum kit, tearing cleanly through. Laughing to myself, counting the drum beats now. Just like the conductor always said.
"Try and match your forte with the rhythm."
Match this, yeah?
Slamming one of the three cheap, school-owned tubas to the ground. Caked in dust. Dust flies everywhere. Dry gurgling snap.
I am Edwards rising self-hate.
I love Fight Club. It makes my life seem less fucked. When I watch Fight Club, I can say to myself, "Well, you may have dead parents, but at least you don't have a manic alter-ego."
My parents were Elizabeth and Christopher. Ordinary names. Ordinary people.
They didn't have a rocky marriage, they weren't hopelessly lovey. They were just stupid and naive.
They underestimated the psychos that inhabit the bleeding streets of New York City and that's exactly what happened to them. They were left bleeding in the uninhabited streets of City New York.
Three days it took to find them.
Like it matters.
I save my piste de résistance for last.
Piano, meet gas can. Fancy a threesome with lighter?
Two steps to the left, seven tiny skips to the right, turn swiftly so the nurse on call doesn't notice you loitering. Consider the vending machine. Glance around. Is she there? Go.
I breathed deeply. I was here on work experience, it was normal for me to be around here, what's the worry?
Like Heidi said, I have access to this shit.
She probably said other things, but, when she started kissing me I didn't notice.
Because, seriously, what are the odds? I'm a huge nerd, people don't talk to me. I don't go out, I study. And Heidi, one of the hottest girls in school, was interested. And I mean, I'm a smart guy, I can tell she's not using me. She dumped her boyfriend to ask me out. And we'd been going out for like, three weeks before she asked for the narcotics.
And anyway, it's for her mum.
I slipped into the supply cupboard. If I got caught, I could kiss my hopes of being a doctor goodbye. Just stuff a few bottles into your bag, Carlisle, and get the hell out.
I can feel the adrenaline buzzing in the back of my brain, a nagging, incesant chirp. It's not steady, but it's consistant, and it's screaming at me.
I can hear them all chanting. One tequila, two tequila...
"Bella! Beella!" Jessica, giggling, pointing at a pot plant that has mountains growing out of it and a huge nose. I gasp. "I know, right!? Look at it!"
I was looking.
Three tequila, four...
The room was spinning, but it had been spinning for a while now. There was a bottle of beer in my hand and I couldn't remember picking it up, and my hair was mussed. I stole a glance over towards the poor sucker downing the shots, egged on by the crowd.
Five tequila, six tequila...
My head was hurting. It was agonizing. It was screaming, it was pounding, it was belting out angry words and begging for mercy at the same time. I wanted to die, I wanted to sleep.
I remember what Phil said before I left the house tonight. "If you walk out that door, I wouldn't bother walking back through it."
I looked down. Someone had painted my shoes orange, and there were waterfalls springing out of them. The carpets were on fire but I didn't mind.
I giggled to myself as my cheek connected with the cold carpet. I kept on giggling until I vomited, and, when, the blood came, I laughed through that too.
A/N: Hope you liked it. A couple of inspirations for this story, if you're interested, were Skins (the show) and Fight Club, obviously. And a couple of songs, 9 Crimes by Damien Rice, Hallalujah by John Cale and Chemistry of a Car Crash by Shiny Toy Guns. Thanks for reading :)