Note: I'd like to think I'm somewhat known for doing one shots. It's all I ever seem to do. I mean, I have like seven thousand of them. So, finally, I have decided to make a single story to dump them all in. And this be the first one.
This one in particular is short and sweet. I had some free time today and just started writing, and this what you get; a frustrated rant inside of Tori's mind.
Damn night time. I mean, seriously, does it really have to be night right now? Would the world stop turning, or explode, or implode, or something if the sun wasn't currently almost opposite the moon above me?
It's irrational to think in such ways, I know, but I'm in one of those moods; one of those moods where logic escapes you and somehow ends up replaced by incoherent babbling and frustration. But I couldn't care less at the moment. In fact, I feel as if my thoughts are natural and my balled up fists justified.
You see, there's this girl. She attends the same stupid school as I and I've known her for a few stupid years now. I'm not sure how, but she always knows just how to push the buttons that amp up my anger. All I ever am is nice to her and yet, she returns my plea for friendship with demeaning words, evil glares and malicious acts. She thinks of herself as the queen bee; too cool for my music, my fashion choices, my outlook on life and too rebellious to offer up a genuine smile.
What's wrong with the way I am, anyway? Ask her and I'm sure she'd tell you in a heartbeat. She does, after all, always seem to have something hurtful prepared to say to me each day.
"I liked you better when I didn't know you, Vega," she had said this morning. What the hell does that even mean?
But despite all of that, despite the rolled eyes, the sneers and the hollow threats of violence, I can't seem to separate her from my thoughts. Even now, talking to myself in my own mind as if someone could actually hear me, I'm thinking of her.
Everyday I go home and try to act as if nothing bothers me, but it does. My days always end up the same way. No matter what, I end up closed in my room with drowning music and a whole lot of stuffed animals, trying my damnedest not to let thoughts of her anger me further. I usually start by sitting up and proper in my pajamas, eventually coming to the conclusion that lying down would be more comfortable. It's not. But I always do it anyway. I toss, turn, sweat, grunt and tear the covers off of myself until I finally give in, and accept what I try not to embrace.
It's the night's fault. Jade loves night time, and that's why I hate it.
With my hair and shirt disheveled, one hand, usually the right one, ends up sliding down my stomach and into my bottoms. I don't know how she does it. Somehow the more she infuriates me, the more I can't stand the thought of never having her touch me in ways no one ever should. So in my frustration, I masturbate. And every night it feels better and better.
And then the morning rolls around, and I hate myself. I hate myself because I know I shouldn't have succumb to my emotions like that the night before. Because each and every time I do it, I enjoy it more and more. And the more I enjoy it, the more in love I fall.
There's a girl that loves the night, you see.
Jade West, I love you. And that's why I hate you.