Life in Exile (a story that I have no idea what will happen in, muahaha!)
Well this is a story I just recently started on. I have no idea where it will go, at first it is loosely based on my life. I chose to put it in first person present point of view because it's what I'm least used to doing. I apologize if this is a bit boring and melancholic at the beginning but I will be sure to make it more interesting. I'm going to make this hardcore fiction. Dracula-esque vampires maybe? Tell me in the comments, if I get any. Also I worked out the cuss words. Because I'm cool.
Just an average day
"Liz, what in the f(iretr)uck are you doing?" a familiar, taunting voice disrupts my lack of thought. I peek one eye open and get a good look of the attacker. It's my older sister, looking at me in the way she does, like I'm garbage.
"I'm getting my zen on, if you wouldn't mind." I reply crankily. She rolls her chocolate brown eyes and heads towards the door. "Where are you going, missy?" She turns and sneers at me.
"What? Seriously, you do not need to be any more tan then you already are." It's true. Her skin is practically orange, and quite frankly, I look like a ghost in comparison to her. She flips her hair over her shoulder and barges out the door.
I mutter a couple of profanities her way as soon as she leaves, turning my attention again to the ceiling. She's been that way ever since she was deemed 'popular' in high school. Two, almost three, years of Abercrombie-and-b***h and I've gotten used to it. Don't get me wrong, I love the girl and all, but she is a brat. And I am just her stupid little emo sister.
Reluctantly, I hop up from the couch, walking to the kitchen. My sister isn't that big of a problem, just a little speck of evil in a sea of unhappiness. In the passing seconds since Sharon interrupted me, I feel a heavy weight crushing my heart.
I wonder how I'm still breathing, as I always do in the aftermath of my Zen moments. Standing in the middle of the kitchen's tiled floor, my eyes flit to the soup cabinet. Was the gun still there, I think, instinctively opening the cabinet door. And it is. Hesitantly I reach out for it, gingerly holding the small pistol in my palm. Every single muscle in my body screams 'Do it!'.
I quickly thrust it back to the cabinet, shaking my head. Bitterly, I close the door, tracing my fingers over the shameful scars on my left wrist.
Just the remembrance of them makes my cheeks red. I pull my eyes to them, sadly gazing at the fresh red lines neatly carved into my skin. There are six of them, each an inch away from each other. I can see memories from depression past engraved as thin white scars. I silently pull my jacket over them, again promising myself that I'll stop. I know I'm just lying to myself.
I feel empty. I mechanically walk down the hall, to my room, where I'm greeted by a soft meow, followed by a small brown cat with calico specks.
"Dangit, Quesadilla!" I pick the cat up. "You're not supposed to be in my room, sweetie!" She purrs, and I set her down outside the door. "Bad kitty."
I close my door before the troublesome little thing can get back in, and sink into my bed. I feel my eyes start to droop shut and fall asleep.
(Gasp! What will occur! Kidding, I know its not much of a quote unquote 'cliffhanger' but I couldn't give less of a 'dang'. Also, I apologize for it being so short! I have a fun party twist coming up. So soon, I know, but it will give me a chance to mold this story to whatever the f(iretr)uck I want)