"Emerald Emotions and Ruby Conflictions"

Perhaps, the man pondered, if I shan't do anything with who I am, with the creature I have become, then it may be for the best if I merely end it. As he speculated the thought, he began to chuckle. Low in his throat, a smile barely showing above the flawless features that he did not know he possessed. Yes, indeed it is quite peculiar, for whatever could be amusing about ending one's own existence? Is that even our-as mere, pathetic organisms-right to call? It is a great sin to kill, says almost any biblical book one might read, but is it not an even greater sin to commit an act of suicide? So, the man continued to chuckle, until-

"Whatcha writin'?"

Despite myself and all dignity I tried to maintain within my high school years, I screamed and instinctively flung my arms over the paper, like some sort of cliché girl attempting to hide the contents of her diary. I shot hatred-filled daggers at the perpetrator with curious eyes to the random story I was trying to conduct.

"Mike Makowski," I snarled, taking my arms away from the notebook and making it apparent that I slam the black cover down on the wrinkled, torn and coffee stained pages within, "what do you want? A trunk ride back to Scottsdale? Because if that happens to be the case-and I do so hope that it is-then I assure you that that can most certainly be arranged."

He glanced down at me, making a face as if my threat went in one ear and right back out through the other. I didn't doubt that it most likely did. "Well, I came here 'cause, you know, it's kinda my hangout spot too, and I saw you and was all, Hey, I know him, I'll say hey- so I came over and saw you writing-"

"And will leave me to it." His hangout spot, too? I wanted to outwardly gag up my left lung and shove it down his facial orifice of a mouth until he, in turn, gags in an exceedingly uncouth and coarse fashion for a late night diner. What a scene that would make. Though, looking around, it wouldn't be as if there would be many witnesses. And the waiters/waitresses seem so completely apathetic about everything (even going out of their way to not care) that they would most likely shrug a shoulder in a stoic manner of not giving a fuck.

I looked back down at the black, spiraled notebook and slid the pencil over the cover, keeping it in place so it wouldn't roll off the table or some annoying shitty act that pencils do to piss off writers. Am I calling myself a writer now? Damn. Hello world, meet Pete Grey; the new Poe! Has a nice ring to it.

"I just wondered what you were writing about." He retorted, putting his arms behind his back and lightly swaying from side to side. I stifled an obnoxious eye roll. I was sitting alone at a table with a large, red cushion going around it for a booth, and he was awaiting ever so patiently for me to ask him to sit. He was going to be standing there for awhile. The thought almost made me smile.
Almost.

"Do you know what I'm wondering, Mike? Do you?" He opened his mouth to reply, but I knew it would be stupid so I cut him off and continued, "I'm wondering as to why I don't stand up right here and hit you in the face with this book in a righteous, justified endeavor to knock those idiotic and painfully false canines from your mouth. Also," I stood with my palms flat on the table, "I query to myself as to why you dare even come near me in the first place when-oh, look at that-I'm alone, and surprising to most that is, in fact, unusual, so most likely it is for a reason. That, my dear vampire douche, is what I am 'wondering' at this moment in time."

Mike simply blinked in my general direction, and I realized my miniature speech was presumably cursed to fall upon deaf ears, as is usual in this ever so quaint mountain town in Colorado. Fuck, I could not wait to leave. But, I digress and that is irrelevant.

"Soooo… Why are you alone?" He piped up, and with a quick glance to his left and right, as if checking to see if anyone was looking, he slid into the booth beside me, but not exactly next to me. If he scooted even a centimeter closer I probably would have castrated him right there with my miniature spoon for stirring coffee. I absentmindedly grabbed the utensil and tapped it rhythmically against the blue tabletop.

"If I wanted you to know, I would have informed you." I muttered, but he ignored the stab and went on. "You seem extra cranky today, if possible, Pete." At the use of my real name I literally growled and curled my upper lip. I didn't even know people knew my real name. I am pretty much only called "Red", "Goth Kid", "Crack Stains", or when people feel really creative, "Fag". The originality of this generation is overwhelmingly insignificant.

"I'm cranky because I had an actual story in process-" I gestured down to the neglected notebook-"and now that you're within a mile radius of me, the inspiration has literally drained out of me like blood from an opened wound."

"Well," He started, and by that ignoramus grin that formed on his face I knew I had slipped up somehow with what I had just said, "don't worry, because if you have an opened wound, I'd lick it clean. Then maybe make you a vampire; like myself." He then had the nerve to wriggle his eyebrows and laugh, leaning against the upholstery behind him. The audacity of this imbecile makes me want to puke out my organs.

I didn't even respond-to be honest I could barely hear, considering I am not that fluent in the language of "Stupid". Instead I just picked at the peeling, black cover of the notebook and tried to pretend that Count Fagula wasn't breathing down my neck. After a meager minute of somewhat comforting and bearable silence, Mike spoke, leaning to the side as if there was something interesting out the window to see. "Anyway, why are you alone? I never see you split from your group."

I halfheartedly shrugged, figuring that if I answered him now he'd leave me alone. Idle chit-chat plus awkward-silence-for-him-not-for-me surely equals him weirdly departing. So, with a deep sigh I answered, "Firkle had an odd, conformist-like but cute date thing with Broflovski-though he denies it's a date-Henrietta had a project thing she had to finish up, and Michael is working."

"Broflovski as in Kyle?" He asked, and I refrained from pinching the bridge of my nose because, really, is that the only thing he heard and even if it was, wow, I knew he was stupid, but damn. Without meeting his green gaze, I ripped off an edge of the notebooks front. "No, the younger, more Canadian one. Ike." Why was I even answering him at all? I could be continuing my epic tale. Even though it wasn't epic, it was just words made into sentences made into paragraphs that kind of went together in an artistic fashion.

"Oh… isn't he, like, sporty?" The usage of the word "like" even once in almost every sentence is so annoying. So annoying that if I could wish for anything, anything at all, I'd wish for a magic eraser and all of the dictionaries in the world, and I would erase the word from the existence in books of literature and from every person's vocabulary.

"Why are you so nosy?" I shot back, turning to him and flipping my hair to the side. I'd cut it, but it looks kind of badass. "And why are you here? Yes, I know you, and it is exceptionally disappointing and I do wish I could do something about it, but simply because we know each other's names and faces absolutely does not mean that I enjoy your existence on this planet, nor any other, for that matter."

Was I being more harsh than normal? Perhaps, but there was just something about him that really pissed me off. Maybe the irritating attire or attitude. Maybe the enraging way he continues on and on about being a fictional creature. Maybe it's only because he's him and I'm me, but there's a reason somewhere.

"Well, Pete, I guess I'm just… trying to make conversation, ya know?" I turned my head, flipping the black and red tresses out of my eyes once more. "Okay." Was all I said. Suddenly I was just really, really tired. Fatigued, even. "I mean," he went on, and I pondered to myself if I could possibly rip off my ears without the aid of any tool, "to be honest, you just seem really…cool." That comment made me quirk a single dark brow.

Mike quickly turned away at my skeptical glance, but not before I noted the flush creeping its way into his cheeks. "You speak your mind; you let people know how you really feel about them, especially if it's hurtful but true. I don't know, maybe that's not something to envy, per se, but you just seem so courageous and between you and me, I think it's…kinda awesome."

I stared at the back of his head, taken aback and totally dumbfounded. Was he complimenting me? Is that what that was? I don't think I've ever even been complimented before. Instead of feeling that tingly, bubbly or warm feeling that I often find myself reading about when someone gets praised (if that is what that was), all I felt was befuddled confusion and a genuine sense of perplexity within my mind.

Do I thank him? Forcing my mouth to form the outlandish words, I managed to stutter, "Uhm, well… uh, thanks, I guess." What do I even say to that? Yeah, I know I'm awesome? Sorry, don't know how to respond, no one's said anything nice to me before…ever.

"No problem." He finally turned back to me, a small smile lingering on his lips. His blush had subsided, but his usually pale face still retained a pink tint. "I better get home. My mom will freak if I'm out too late." My expression deflated. I almost had a sort of quiet respect for him. So much for that, I suppose. "Anyway, it's a Friday night… are you doing anything tomorrow?"

I opened my mouth to throw a smart ass comeback in his face, but no sound came out. So, in a way I just looked stupid, sitting there as Mike stood up, waiting for a reply with my mouth agape. If I didn't close it soon, flies would come. I made inaudible sounds before finally just clamping my mouth shut. The fuck? Clearing my throat, I finally answered, somewhat lamely, "I don't know."

Mike smiled, and I don't really know why, but if it's because of me I promised myself I'd punch him. "Maybe we could hang, per se."

"Me? Hang with… you? Fuck no!" And why did I just say "hang"? Ugh, that sounded like a damned conformist for sure. "In fact, get out of my diner! Go, shoo, you vampire scum!"

I made a face, and Mike snickered, making no attempt to hide it. "I'll text you, then." With that pussy closing statement, he turned and rushed out, probably wanting to get home before Mommy grounded him or some shit. Ungroundable my ass.

"Wait!" I called as thoughts actually entered my brain. I stood, leaning over the table and shouted, "But you don't know my number!"

It was useless. He was gone. Slumping back into my seat, I stared ahead of me for God knows how long, just thinking, but not really thinking. I think I was thinking about thinking but never actually thought anything. I'll never understand people. Or vampires, or… whatever. Just when I was about to get up and leave, go home and lay in bed and think about thinking, my phone sang a tune that only played for one specific person.

Michael.

I wonder what he'd say about the whole thing. I don't know why, since Michael is my closest…whatever, but I let the phone ring.

A.N. If people would read this, I'd be soooo happy. So, uhm, I know that was weird. And it was weird because I was just writing this to write something involving the Goths, I wasn't anticipating it going anywhere, ESPECIALLY FanFiction, but… I don't know, I had an actual idea.

So later chapters won't seem so… so much like filler, I guess. So please, please stick with it, because I promise actual things will ACTUALLY happen. Anyway, if no one got the title, emerald emotions=emerald is green, green means jealousy.

Ruby conflictions=ruby is the color of blood, Mike's a "vamp", there will be conflicts…Sounds cool. But, yeah, I actually know where the rest of this will go, so… tune in next time.

OH, and please Review! Comments let me know people are reading! ^_^
((I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK, IT BELONGS TO MATT STONE AND TREY PARKER))