A/N-I ONLY OWN PENNY (yes, that's the characters name). I'm trying really hard to keep all unoriginal characters, actually, IN character . Yes, I do get that ivy never had a kid. but guess what? TOUGH NOOGIES. like, seriously, please, PLEASE, dont irritate me and just flame. ok, thats all, enjoy
The building is ablaze. I am on the first story of my old middle school, the art room to be exact. All exits are blocked, barricaded by the flames. I scream. That's right, I was the only one there. I had to stay for three extra hours because I got in a fight with a girl. I didn't mean to. She just pushed the wrong buttons. Said bad things about my family. It wasn't my fault. Blame DNA. The flames slowly creep in on me. Flames the color of my hair. My hair I always loathed. I can't breathe.
I awaken with a gasp, as if all the air from my bedroom were drained, just moments before the alarm goes off. Three years it's been. Three years and sleep either eludes me or that night replays. My subconscious could have easily picked another memory to auto-play each night. Then again, I have a fucked up mind. Doctors tell me so. My mother tells me so.
She gave me up. I was 3, and wasn't surprised. Her heart was shriveled, cold. People laughed when they found out she was pregnant. All of them thought she was sterile. One person proved them wrong. Proved them wrong in a rage of anger upon the departure of his girlfriend. She loathed me, as much as I abhor her. Gave me to him. Thought it would destroy me. My father wasn't, and to this day, is not bad. And what happened to me was not his doing. Nor was it coincidence. It was my mother, and a few others' ideas to set me up for the future, so I could follow in his footsteps. He wasn't there, so it was perfect. He cried when they told him I was in the hospital. That they had reproduced the same exact "accident" that happened to him. I don't remember much, if you ask me now. I remember smashing mirrors. I remember cutting my long, red hair so it would be even on both sides. I remember how I felt I was becoming my father. I remember Doppleganger becoming a part of me for the first time.
My room's not barren. There are posters and pictures. Typical of a normal teenager's room. I gathered the courage to put up a mirror a family friend (who I always looked up to as a maternal, or aunt-like figure) had given me. My bed is beside a window that overlooks the whole city. 30 stories below, I people watch. One boy, every morning at 9:00 sharp, picks up coffee from the café across the street. There's a lady in a yellow fur coat who walks these three yappy white dogs. There's a policeman. A thug. Life passes often below me. I used to create stories for everyone as a little girl. I never really had friends. The one's I did have, I lost quickly, once they found out who I was, who my parents were, where I came from.
I know for a fact that the rest of the apartment is empty. It often is. When my father is home, we don't engage much anyways. Its uncharacteristic of him to chat pleasantly over a cup of tea. I go to school, evade strange looks, come home, order a pizza for myself, do homework, and sleep. I don't resent him. He's gruff and distant, and in many ways, I am as well.
In truth, things changed once I reinvented myself.
Once I officially brought Doppleganger out.