I'd always loved the night. I know a lot of people find the quiet unsettling and eerie, but I find it relaxing. The common hustle and bustle of my ignorant peers is, in its own, noisy way, incredibly calming too, the way people can push and shove past you time and time again and never notice you, no matter how excited, erratic, depressed or tear-stained you are.
My 'charcoal-grey' – the label told me - skinny jeans turn impossibly darker as the sky turns from an inky abyss to a vast pitch-black canopy stretching above me, and the damp bench I've flopped on numbs my bum and chills me to the core. Rubbing my hands together, I discreetly look around, as I always do. In the small cemetery down the road and around the corner from the house I grew up in and still live in with my single, alcoholic mom, a crow lazily caws, as if in a deep slumber. No-one's here. No-one ever is I think to myself, bitterly. The content of my thoughts are usually as poetic as the life-changing music I listen to; any type of metal, screamo or punk-rock. A slurred, alcohol-ridden voice drifts annoyingly from down the road, disturbing my newly-found tranquil. I recognise the voice, cocky, and arrogant, probably one of the oblivious quarter-back jocks from school.
I go to the biggest high school in southern California. Despite the seemingly never-ending sunny days, I have milky pale, flawless skin. I have a perfect nose, or so I'm told; full lips and round, emerald eyes, rimmed generously with thick, long, dark eyelashes, and for those I'm thankful; no-one can tell when I'm not wearing mascara. I don't really like it anyway; since I stay up nearly all night, I get incredibly sleepy, and with mascara, my eyelids eventually blink shut from the sheer effort of keeping the unnatural weight up. One day, those gem-like eyes of mine will turn dull, like how diamonds come from sooty coal, but the reverse. My best feature will turn dull and be forgotten, like a rumour falling on deaf ears.