So, I know that this has been done before, and that some people are getting tired of it, but hey, I thought a self-insert would be a good start. If you don't want to read it, they just invented this really great thing called the "back button." This chapter will be a llittle slow, but we'll get into the movie next chaper! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Nightmare Before Christmas. I do own Melanie, her family, and any other OC's you see.

Okay, so for all the adolescents out there, you know how you come to an adult with a huge personal issue or problem at school, and their only answer is, "Oh, you're just at that age. I completely understand; I had that same problem when I was at that age. Don't worry, it's not as bad as you think, it'll get better soon"? It doesn't matter who you talk to – parents, teachers, neighbors, whatever – you'll get the same answer every time. Well, I'm sure you've already figured this out, but just in case you haven't…they're all wrong. Your problems have very little to do with the fact that you're a teenager, your parents did not have the same problems that you do, it is certainly as bad as you think it is, and it will not sort itself out unless you take dramatic and fearless action. And no one, I repeat, no one, understands you.

At least, that's what I'd thought for almost all of my life.

Most people expect young women (by this, I mean from little kid to high school senior) to be pretty, perky, fashionable, polite, sociable, and otherwise sickeningly perfect. I am none of these things (politeness, admittedly, is a little iffy – I am content in my demeanor so long as the one I am speaking to does not, or has not ever, thought of me as an "abnormal, trouble-making hooligan." Simply that this is not the case ninety-seven percent of the time does not mean I am not well-mannered.) I am dark, cynical, intelligent, and a complete loner. I see no point to fashion, despise overly-perky people, and am, as the popular girls are so eager to remind me, "hideously fat and ugly." While other girls are shopping for shoes, dancing ballet, or gushing over boys, I am reading a book, carving wood, or pondering deep and pertinent questions of the universe, such as why the color pink seems to be so desirable to those born with two X-chromosomes.

To put it simply, I am Goth. Well, all right, I'm not a complete Goth – I am able to take joy out of many things in life, and I would sooner join the cheerleading squad than get a piercing, ears or otherwise. My pet is not exotic, venomous, or mean-spirited – she's an intelligent, affectionate Norwegian forest cat named Calista. However, I am a seasoned follower of most other levels of Goth: black eyeliner, wardrobe consisting of mostly black or dark red clothing, a lock of my hair dyed crimson, a love of all things creepy and unusual, and a firm belief in the supernatural. Actually, it was those last two who got me into that whole mess in the first place. But I'm getting ahead of myself; there's plenty of time to tell the whole story.

My name is Melanie Carter (don't let the name fool you – "Melanie" is actually a Greek name that means black or dark. And my mom wonders how I ended up like this…), and I was fifteen the day I ran away from home, the day my dreams had all been fulfilled, my prayers had all been answered…

This particular day began like a lot of others in my life – with a fight with my mom.

You see, my mom and I are like night and day, and it's not too hard to tell who's who. My mom is tall and skinny and has the body of a ballet dancer. She's got a great personality, she's really nice, and she's freakin' gorgeous, if you haven't already figured that out. She was homecoming queen in high school, and prom queen, too. And me, well…you get the idea. Basically, the only thing we have in common is our long, light-brown hair, and we even don't share that since I dyed part of it. And believe you me, I'm just fine with that. My mom, on the other hand, is decidedly not. She is completely adamant about me being exactly like her, and I mean exactly. Of course, I'm about as willing to change my ways as Calista is to take a bath. Another thing; like most perfect girls, my mom is repulsed by all things dark and foreboding, especially my Goth-ness. And naturally, like most Goths, I am repulsed by perfect girls like my mom. So, as you can imagine, we're at each others' throats a lot.

This time, it was about my Halloween costume – and of course, waiting until the big day to nag me about getting a new one makes PERFECT sense. Even before my initiation to the Wonderful World of the Dark and Demented, Halloween had always been my favorite holiday, and despite my age, I'm still a hard-core trick-or-treater. Hey, the way I see it, you're never too old to dress up in weird clothes and wander around the neighborhood unsupervised to get free stuff. So anyway, I wanted to be a sorceress this year, and I had an awesome costume: a black tank top, a purple plaid skirt, black pantyhose (although it pained me), combat boots, and this amazing black cloak with these purple dragons sewn in. It cost me my whole year's savings, but it would be totally worth it. I couldn't wait to wear it!

But of course, my mom just had to intervene. She barged up into my room (without even knocking, mind you) and surprised me so bad I almost sliced my finger off with my carving knife. But rather than freaking out over my catastrophic near-injury, or even apologizing for ignoring the rules of common courtesy, she starts chewing me out about the costume. Mom doesn't want me to wear "that raggedy old thing," oh no – she wants me to wear the one she made me herself. I was just opening my mouth in order to insist that the cloak wasn't raggedy at all, but brand new, and to inquire why she had made me a costume anyway – I mean, she'd been with me in the store when I bought it, and I'd been talking all week about it, for God's sake – when she whipped out this dress from behind her back, and the voice died in my throat.

I saw pink. Lots and lots of pink. And there were roses all over the dress. Roses, for the love of God. I felt a part of me die inside.

When the urge to be violently sick passed, I took a deep breath and said slowly, "Mom…what the hell is that?"

"Don't say 'hell', dear," Mom said automatically, and then her face broke into a broad grin. "It's the Halloween costume I made for you! Oh, you'll be such a darling little rosebush!"

My jaw dropped. "A what?!" Please tell me I misheard her, please let me not end up being…

"A rosebush, Melanie," Mom repeated. "Isn't it fabulous?"

It's official; the cosmos are out to get me, and my little cat, too. No, seriously – I'll bet you my entire college fund that Mom made a costume for Calista, too. Probably to make her look like a rosebud or flower pixie or something equally revolting.

Experience told me that the best way to reason with Mom was to explain my beliefs with slow and simple words. "Mother," I began firmly, putting my half-finished carving on my desk on standing up, "I'm a Goth." Mom visibly winced and nodded weakly. "Goths do not associate themselves with rosebushes, they do not wear clothes that make them look 'darling' or 'fabulous' –" I stepped closer to Mom until our faces were only about six inches apart. " – and they never, under any circumstances, do they come anywhere near the color pink. It's…oh, Mom, it's just not right!"

Mom's grin slowly faded into a look of utter shock. "But…but why not?" she sputtered. "I spent two weeks making this for you! And pink would look so lovely on you! After all, it looks fantastic on me, and we look so much alike…"

I shuddered and sat back down as Mom started in on one of her "oh-how-I-wish-you-were-more-like-me-and-not-a-solitary-Gothic-freak" speeches. I grabbed my carving and my knife and slowly sank into the Zone.

I suppose now would be a good time to talk about my wood carving, as it is a big part of who I am and will show up multiple times later on in the story. You see, my dad's a wood carver, too, and he's been making these amazing carvings since he was a little kid. You wouldn't believe all the stuff he's made: a running horse, an attacking bear, a cereal box, a bunch of flutes, a whole flock of geese, and (his favorite) a life-sized statue of Mom. All of them are really detailed and accurate and, well, perfect. When I was a little kid, he'd take me down into his workshop and let me touch all his carvings and his knife set, and then he'd carve these little animals just for me. That's why I love him; he's so laid-back and relaxed, and he never treated me like a little kid or a freak or anything. He actually asks for and cares about my opinions, which is the total opposite of Mom. Sometimes I wonder why those two got married; personality-wise, they're total opposites.

Alright, back to the carving. When I was six years old, Dad bought me a knife set and a bunch of different sized wood blocks for my birthday. He said that carving was in my blood, and that he saw a lot of potential in me, and if I wanted to, he would give me lessons. Mom, of course, was scandalized ("The very idea of letting a little girl that close to a knife!"), but I gave Dad a big hug, grabbed my carving kit, and raced downstairs to the workshop, calling behind me to hurry up, Daddy, let's get started! We had a lesson almost every night, but there were so many things to remember, like which knife to use depending on what you're carving, the different cuts to make, or how to know when the wood you're using is too soft and mushy for carving. Plus, despite what my dad had told me, whatever "potential" I had seemed to be rapidly proving false. Still, Dad was patient, and after about two weeks of lessons, I'd finally been able to carve something with adequate intelligence – a heart. Not very fancy, but Dad bragged about it like it was an Olympic Medal or something. I've been carving ever since. Over time, I bought some paints and brushes and have started adding color to my work. Dad's really proud, and he says that if I keep carving, I could have a real future in the art world, and that one day I'd become a better carver than he was. I told him that I was nowhere near his level and he'd always be the world's best wood carver to me. Let me tell you, his face almost ripped apart after I said that, his smile was so big. We still have lessons about once a week.

Unlike my dad, I don't make my creations so varied. Every block of wood I've carved goes into three categories: "Mythical Creatures", "Cats", and "Halloween Spirit". That last one, of course, is the largest and grandest of the three. Jack-o-lanterns, witches, werewolves, trick-or-treating kids, spiders, bats…you name it, I've carved it. In fact, the carving I was working on when my mom came in with her train wreck of a costume was one of a cat crouching on top of a garbage can, inspired by the curiosity-induced antics of Calista, of course. When it was done, it would probably go into the Box. Most of my carvings I kept, but just around Halloween time, I'd take the carvings that I don't care about as much, put 'em in a box, and head down to the shopping center to sell them. I get quite a lot of money, too. I'd spent a whole month working on a haunted house about the size of a small dollhouse, complete with old-fashioned furniture, creaky stairs, and ghosts, and a man named Aaron Simmons gave me five-hundred dollars for it. Five-hundred dollars! And in cash, too! Can you believe it? Apparently he was some sort of professor at an arts school in Hollisburg, which is about an hour's drive away from my hometown, Briarsville (don't worry – he gave me his business card, and one trip to the Internet proved his legitimacy), and told me that he'd be looking forward to seeing my next work. I have a feeling that my wallet will become quite fat in the near future.

I'd just finished the basic shape of my carving and was starting on the details of the garbage can when both my carving and my knife were snatched out of my hands. "Hey!" I exclaimed, glaring up at Mom. "I was working on that!"

Mom placed my knife and unfinished carving on the dresser behind her and gave me her best disappointed-mother sigh. "Well, you should have been paying attention to me! Honestly, if you put half as much effort into your wardrobe as you do making those ridiculous little statues, than maybe –"

Oh, no she didn't.

"Ridiculous?!" I gasped. "You don't think Dad's carvings are ridiculous –"

"They're not," Mom snapped. "His carvings are nice and sweet, but the things you make are so…unnatural! Those monsters and demons…" She shuddered with disgust.

My temper flared. "Oh, right. So basically, something's unnatural if it's not at all what you like!"

Boy, did that make her mad. If I've learned anything about perfect girls, it's that they hate being told that they aren't perfect after all. "Melanie Elizabeth, I just don't understand what's wrong with you! You refuse to get along with the kids in school…"

"That's not my fault!" I interrupted. "They want nothing to do with me!"

Mom continued as if she hadn't even heard me. "You pick fights with Brett…"

"I pick fights with him? What are you, blind? He jumps at every opportunity to mess with me! Trust me, I'm only hitting in self-defense!"

"You're even buying Ollie into all of this!"

"Hey, I didn't ask him to worship me!"

(By the way, Brett and Ollie are my little brothers. Brett's ten; Ollie's seven. Brett's basically like a typical little brother – plays pranks on you and makes fun of you, but really loves you inside – except that he really doesn't love me at all. He says that I'm a freak and that I should go crawl back into the hole I came out of. Isn't he sweet? And Mom never does anything to stop him. But Ollie, wow, he totally loves me. I don't know why or how, but not only does he think I'm normal, he wants to be just like me! Lately, he's started wearing all black, and last night at dinner, he asked when he can get his hair colored to mach Big Sissy's! Dad and I burst out laughing, but Mom looked really pissed off. Man, I love that boy.)

Mom seemed to have finally had enough. "Well, maybe he wouldn't 'worship you' so much if you didn't seem so new and different! I wish you'd act more like normal girls, instead of like such a…such…a freak!"

The furious retort I'd been planning died in my throat, and all I could do was stare at her, disbelief etched into my face. Not her, too…not my own mother…

Slowly, the expression on Mom's face turned from angry, to triumphant, to shock. She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth and mumbled, "No…no, Melanie dear, I didn't mean…oh, I'm so –"

"Get out," I said icily. I wasn't mad anymore, surprisingly; I just felt this empty numbness in my chest.

Mom lowered her hands; she looked confused. "But…but I was only…"

"GET OUT!" I screamed, pointing at the door. Mom squeaked and scurried out like a mouse. I slowly let my finger drop, staring after her. I wasn't sure if I was feeling angry or sad or what. To be honest, I still felt sort of numb, and maybe a little hungry. I turned around and reached for the book that was resting quietly on my nightstand, but then I felt my knees buckle beneath me and collapsed on my bed, sobbing bitterly.

She hates me. My own mother thought I was a freak. A monster. All because I was different than her. It didn't matter what she'd been choking out at the end – she did mean it. How long had she felt like this? And what about the others? I knew Brett was on Mom's side for sure, but was all that Dad and Ollie had done just an act? Did they hate me, too? But I hadn't even done anything! All because I was Goth…because I wasn't like them…it wasn't fair!

I wasn't sure how long I had lain there when I heard a soft mew and felt a warm, wet tongue near my ear. I raised my head, wiping away a tear, and found myself face-to-muzzle with Calista. She mewed again and nuzzled my cheek, her golden-yellow eyes seemingly sad. I slowly sat up, pulled her onto my lap, and stroked her gently, no longer sobbing but with tears still trickling down my face. Calista closed her eyes, purring softly.

Now, this isn't one of those animal-lovers stories about how a pet did some super-amazing thing to help their owner, but I think it would be prudent to talk about Calista for a bit. I got her for Christmas two years ago, when she was just a kitten, the runt of the litter. She was really fragile and delicate, and her health wasn't the best. There was a time that the vet thought she wouldn't make it, but I never gave up on her. I gave her cat food with all the nutrients she needed, took good care of her coat, and played with her almost constantly. Maybe we just got lucky, maybe it was all those medicines and nutrient-rich foods, or maybe she just knew that I needed her, I dunno, but whatever it was, Calista ended up pulling through. She's still a little smaller than most cats of her breed, but she's healthier now, and she's got tons of energy. And she's got this really beautiful coat – double-layered, and colored a sort of coppery shade with a little black around her legs and ears. And you know how people say cats are really mean and have a hard time getting close to people? Calista loves me unconditionally, and a simple pet on the head makes her ecstatic. She's really smart, too: when I give her a command, she knows exactly what I want her to do, and she always seems to know just when I need her. I always find myself talking to her, because I honestly think she can understand what I'm saying. She doesn't think of me as a freak at all; he sees me as a leisure partner, the Keeper of the Cat Food, and above all, her best friend. Forget dogs; she is most definitely Goth's Best Friend. But I digress…again.

Calista and I stayed like that until about six o'clock. I was getting stiff from staying in one position for so long, but my mind was racing. If my family didn't want me, I didn't want to be a burden to them. I didn't want to stay anywhere I wasn't wanted. Briarsville was not the place for me. I'd go out into the world and find my own destiny. Screw these people – it was a big world out there, and there's got to be somewhere in it for me.

I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of my mother's voice. "Melanie?" she called from downstairs. "Melanie, your father and brothers and I are going out to dinner. Are you coming with us?" My anger flared once again, and I didn't answer. "Melanie?" Mom called up again. I pressed my lips together, keeping my gaze out the window. The seconds ticked by; finally, I heard the roar of the garage door as it opened, the faint hum of the van's engine, and then another roar as the garage door was lowered again. Then silence.

I quickly nudged Calista off my lap and stood up, eyes dry and heart pounding. I reached for my backpack, unzipped it, and tipped the contents onto my bed. Before the loose papers even had time to settle, I was on the move again, grabbing things out of drawers and shelves. No conscious thought; I was running on pure adrenaline. A change of clothes, wallet, cell phone, batteries, carving kit, pajamas, toothbrush, deodorant, various hygiene products, first-aid kit, a few books…whatever I deemed essential was tossed into my bag. Once finished packing, I sped down the stairs to get some food.

I'd just wolfed down a frozen TV dinner and was just packing some water bottles and a few sandwiches when I heard a meow behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted Calista standing in the threshold, a curious look on her face. We stared at each other for a moment, and then she leapt up onto the counter, crawled into my backpack, and curled up on top of my pajamas. Frowning, I took her out and put her on the counter, but she climbed back in again, looking up at me imploringly.

I looked at her for a long moment before I finally got it. I was her Mistress and best friend, and here I was, about to leave on a long journey without her. Not if she could help it.

I sighed again. "You sure, Calista? It's not going to be easy, and I don't know how far we'll go before we find somewhere we belong. Plus, it'll get cold and wet, and food's not gonna be easy to come by. I won't blame you if you want to stay here." Calista sat up and nuzzled my hand. I grinned – this trip just got a whole lot more bearable. "Okay, but you can't ride in my backpack. I'll get my tote bag for you to ride in." I spent the next fifteen minutes gathering cans of cat food, kitty litter, her food bowl, a blanket from her basket, and some toys. I put the blanket inside my New York Yankees tote bag, picked up Calista, and set her down inside the bag. She seemed quite pleased with her travel arrangements.

Ten minutes later, I stood outside my house, taking a last look at the place I'd called home for fifteen years. The rush of anger and adrenaline had gone; now I felt a little sad, even nervous, about the challenges ahead. But I couldn't give up now. The thought of escaping the hell I'd lived in, of traveling the world, excited me. I was scared, sure. But I felt like this step I was taking was bigger than it seemed, that Fate had led me to this moment.

One day, I'll come back, I promised myself, once I find where I belong.

"C'mon, Calista," I said softly, turning and walking down the driveway. Our journey had begun; there was no turning back now.

So, what'd you think? The only way I can get better is through constuctive criticism, you know!