"Honestly Michael," She comments light heartedly "Are you even among the living anymore?"

I fight back a pained wince as the sound of her soft, high-pitched voice invades my ears. The urge to cover my ears with my hands makes its presence known within my instincts. However, I chose to fight that back too. It would be better if I just stayed neutral this morning. Perhaps that would get me out of this miserable situation sooner.

In front of me, my useless conformist cunt of a step-mother stood, her big brown eyes watching me with a gaze that one would offer a kicked puppy. She anxiously wrung her hands whilst she stared at me. Of course she was too stupid to come up with something else to say. The only thing she was ever good for was wasting time anyway. Homewreckers, with their parasitic ways and chaotic nature, truly had no real personality.

Not that I would accept her even if she did.

Suddenly, her eyes finally break away from my face. Instead, they flickered down to watch as she played with that cheap ass wedding ring-that cheap ass wedding ring that my useless mother used to wear-that she wore. She continued on, twisting it on and off of her finger just as she always did whenever I made her nervous. Which was all the time.

She glanced back up at me, watching me with a shy uncertainty that somehow made her seem even more aggravating than normal. She folded her hands over one another and allowed them to fall in front of her whilst her eyes shifted back and forth between mine. I, as usual, just stared back; my eyes trained on her glabella so that I wouldn't have to pay too much attention to the way she was still looking at me.

Perhaps, if she could just gather up the energy that she was currently using to eye me like a possible threat that was closing in fast on her, or possibly a wounded animal. Then, and only then-if still possible-she could put said energy towards gathering up the required amount of brain cells in the correct area in her rapidly decaying conformist brain. To which-maybe then, and only then-she could fucking piece it together that I wasn't, and never would be in all my days on this miserable planet humanity calls home, in the mood to speak to her.

Oh Cthulhu, if only this disease ridden parasite still held even the most microscopic ounce of intelligence within her. Perhaps then she would successfully acknowledge the growing agitation that radiated off of me in a tsunami-style series of waves.

The wench noticeably bites the inside of her cheek for a brief moment and after knowing her for the past 3 years, it was a tell sign that meant she was preparing herself to speak again. As if she needed to. Catching me off guard, she hesitantly lifts a limp wristed hand up towards my face. I glance at it, thoroughly disgusted at just the idea of her touching me.

"You seem to have some eyeliner on your cheek, honey." She mentions "Let me fix it for you."

She brings her hand up completely, just like that. I'd fought her off many times, as this was not the first time she'd tried to initiate physical contact. Of course she knew not to touch me. Of course she knew how much I utterly loathed her poisoning touch. She was just too stupid to remember it and take it to that happy-go-lucky heart she houses within her. The one that laid covered top to bottom in sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.

Quickly, I maneuver out of her way, easily dodging her oncoming hand with concise precision.

"Michael, stop being so difficult." I hear my conformist father remark "Just let Diane fix your makeup."

Anger quickly begins to bubble within the paper thin walls of cobblestone and concrete I had been built with. A sour taste appears on my razor sharp tongue as I throw a glare of daggers and swords his way. On the couch, he sat, just as he usually did nowadays. With his back to me and his betrothed clusterfuck of a wife that he'd managed to stumble upon at his office. It wasn't surprising that he was already buried back in his newspaper, far too focused on the bullshit happenings going around in town to bother paying attention to my spiteful watch. I roll my eyes in agitation almost immediately and turn my focus back to the woman in front of me. Of course he can pay attention to the lousy conformist bitch of a woman that he'd spent nearly 3 years fucking behind my mother's back, but not me. The original product of his first failed marriage.

"I'm not being difficult." I remark

I turn my back to Diane, continuing on with my morning routine.

I just wanted to get out of this house. All I wanted to do was get a single fucking cigarette lit amd in my mouth. That wasn't asking for a lot—I never asked for a lot.

I reach up and pick my near pitch black trenchcoat off of it's hook located beside the door. Silently, I slip it on over my arms and shrug it on the rest of the way. After that, I dig my hand into the pocket and take out my grey wool fingerless gloves out of the pocket. After slipping those on, I picked my scarf up off of the same hook and wrapped it around my neck. This world was shitty and full of misery. It was a place that invoked pain and suffering onto even the strongest of women and men. But what sucked worse than that was freezing your ass off in this bullshit little mountain town.

"I'd just rather she keep her fucking hands off of me." I hiss

I toss a look back at my so called stepmother, my hatred filled glare landing on her this time, rather than my worthless dad. Diane freezes up, looking similar to a deer when it's caught in headlights. She always did that when I insulted her, and that was the only good thing about her-that she didn't try to argue her worth. It was most likely due to the fact that she already knew that she had absolutely none. Diane watched me, looking just as hurt as she always did. It was obvious that she was already close to tears. And it was all because I reminded her that she had no power over me. But, that didn't make her special, no one had any power over me.

I had not had nearly enough cigarettes to be able to deal with this woman's bullshit today.

My father's voice echos from off in the living room as he scolds me. However, I wasn't having any of it. I'd wasted enough of my time standing around with these conformists. Whilst my father was half-way through his scolding, I turned back to the door. After grabbing the knob and twisting it harshly, I tugged it open.

Dad tries to protest and even makes an effort to get off the couch and put his newspaper down-shocking, I know. However, I had already pulled my cane out of the cylindric container beside the door in the rubber tray filled with random shoes. I didn't bother sparing a glance to my most likely weeping stepmother, because all she ever did was provoke me. With a surprising amount of gentleness, I pull the door shut behind me.

At least I was conscious enough to not slam the door shut like Henrietta always did when it came to her parents.

The cold immediately hits me as I stand in place for at least a second. It briefly overwhelms me with the disgusting urge to abscond back into the hell house behind me-since that was one of the few places where it couldn't fully get to me.

How unfortunate

I reflexively gag at my own instincts in disgust.

The longer that woman tried to speak to me, the more conformist urges began to gnaw at my being. They threaten to topple the empire of darkness that existed inside of me, and it was disgusting. In an effort to eject all distastefully ungoth thoughts from of my mind, I opt to feed them to the starving wolves housed within the barren wreckage covered frozen dessert of a soul that stood heavily guarded and caged inside of me. At least if I locked then in there then I wouldn't have to deal with them any longer.

I trudge across the snowy lawn, not even bothering with taking the pathway. As I walk, I stuff my hand into the left pocket of my trench coat, where I fish out my pack and lighter. With a single hand I flick the carton open and bring it up to my dry lips where I catch the filter end of a single cigarette that I drag out of the box. After finishing up with closing and repocketing the small box, I finally flick my lighter on and put it up to the opposite end, taking my time with sucking in the toxins. Then, when satisfied, I pull the atrociously tacky, black pentagram lighter away from the end, allowing the flame to distinguish itself before I pocket that as well. I blow out smoke from the corner of my lip, having it mix with the condensation from my breath as I reach up to take it between my fingers and pull it out.

Cthulhu, I needed this.

• • •

I refuse to set foot in Wannabe Central School. It was far too permeated with the stench and the presence of conformists and faggy vamp kids who run amongst the halls. No, instead, I made my way to the back end of the school, out on the patch of pavement and concrete where the school dumpsters rained supreme. It was a short walk, compared to the size of the one I had to take in order to get here.

The bell for first period sounds off from the school, meaning that the conformists and faggy vamp kids were to clear the hallways from inside. Meanwhile, as per usual, I pop the lock to the double gates leading into the small area. It was where I'm greeted with a curt nod from Pete, a short glance from Henrietta who was buried focused her sketchbook. I never really got anything resembling a greeting from Firkle, most likely because he's far too goth to even bother with any sort of noticeable acknowledgement of my presence.

"You're late." Henrietta comments lazily, her eyes still glued on the page she was scribbling on

"Yeah," I shrug limply "My conformist bitch of a stepmother was trying to bombard me like usual."

I turn around and shut the gate, spending a brief moment of my time relocking the lock on the gate. After that, I was clear to take my spot next to the stairs Henrietta sat on.

"Cthulhu," Pete comments "That must suck."

"At least he doesn't have to deal with my parents." Henrietta remarks "They told me that if I don't smile in this year's school picture then they'll send me to some preppy conformist camp for the whole summer."

"You better not get turned emo again." Pete tells her

"Cthulhu, no." Henrietta winces in disgust "That was agonizing. I mean, I was still there in my own body. But, like, the emo plant had locked me away inside the deepest depths of my own subconscious where no matter how hard I fought, I couldn't escape because the spores would bring me back down into the pit."

"That's hardcore." Pete, Firkle, and myself all comment in a relatively disinterested unison

Of course, even after the whole emo plant situation happened, we still hadn't confessed in full to Henrietta about what really had happened that week. Even though it had been a few years since. I suppose that in a way, it was silently decided between the three of us that we never would correct her or Firkle on the situation. It happened and we fixed it, that was all. The only one of us who was allowed to bring it up in full was Henrietta. However, she rarely ever did and it was assumably for the best. The less questions the better.

I prop my cane up on the railing of the stairs so that I don't have to continue to hold it. I dig a hand into my left coat pocket and after a couple seconds of rummaging around in there, I finally pull my cigarette carton and pentagon lighter out. The lighter was still tacky as always and I hated it with a fizzling passion. But unfortunately, I was stuck with it.

Casually, I flick the pack open with my thumb and pull out a single cigarette with my free hand. With one final glance at the design on the lighter I was using, I place the stick between my lips and light it.

"Trying something different?" Pete suddenly asks

My tired eyes flicker over to Pete as I turn my head. He flipped his long bangs away from his face for what seemed to be the fifth time since I had arrived. I knew from the look in his red (he wore contacts) eyes and the opened empty pack sitting beside him that he was looking to bum some cigarettes. I pocket my lighter and extend the pack out to Pete, who quickly accepts it. He looks down at it, taking out a couple sticks before he hands it back to me.

"I thought you were, like, committed to menthol?" He continues

I retract my hand and close the pack, stuffing it back into my pocket as Pete lights one of his cigarettes. He throws his red lighter down on the pavement in front of him as he picks up his empty pack and places the two extra sticks in it before flicking it closed. He looks up at me expectantly as he reaches up and takes the cigarette between his fingers. With a puff of smoke leaving his mouth, I give him my answer.

"My conformist hippie cousin, Rodney," I begin "The one who supplies my cigarettes?"

Pete takes another drag and nods at me with a nod in reply to my words.

"Last time he dropped by he told me that I needed to 'broaden my horizons'." I continue "And he gave me camels."

"Well, you chain smoke everything. So they'll be gone eventually." Henrietta butts in "Soon, probably."

I throw a glance over her way to see that she's still scribbling in her sketchbook. Drawing was something that I'd noticed her doing a lot more of lately. Part of me, if left unchecked, would quite likely ask her what she was drawing. But, that would make me no better than some conformist Chad wannabe. So instead, I choose to keep my mouth shut about it. However, I still took down a mental note to glance over her shoulder sometime if I ever found myself standing nearby.

"What the fuck?" I hear Pete mutter

I remove myself from my disgustingly conformist thoughts and instead join the others in turning heads to look, confused, at Pete. Pete, however, didn't look back at any of us. No, he was too focused on staring into the distance, between the dumpsters and through the gate. Wondering what the hell he was so focused on, we follow his gaze, our eyes falling on the exact same thing that had so easily grabbed his attention.

"What the fuck?" We all remark in a perfect chorus

"That's what I said!" Pete exclaims, his voice still considerably dull