August 10, 1998

So...today is the day. It's the day I've been dreading for weeks on end, waiting impatiently, and just wanting it to come and get it over with. That's right, it's the first day of school. Senior year can suck my invisible cock. I'll write again tomorrow, I need to get ready. -Scarlett

With that, I closed my journal and threw the covers off of myself. My feet hit the floor, the boards softly creaking beneath them as I walked to my bathroom. I grabbed my toothbrush and sluggishly brushed my teeth. I examined my face in the mirror. It was the same reflection I saw every day, but today felt different. New school, new me maybe? No.

I grabbed a brush that was halfheartedness strewn on my counters and began to brush the tangles from my curly red hair. I quickly teased it and began to do my dark eye makeup and bloody red lips. Just as I was finishing, my mom called for me downstairs,"Scar, hurry it up! You don't want to be late in the first day!"

I rolled my eyes and screamed back,"I know! I'll be down in a minute!" Quickly, I threw on my fishnet tights and long sleeved black dress that stopped mid-thigh.

I ran down the stairs and out the door, grabbing my black combat boots and backpack on the way. The walk to school was silent and peaceful. Soon the walls of the school loomed over me. I paused to look at the building, before sighing and walking inside dejectedly. I can't imagine why anyone would want to be here right now.

I quickly went to the office to get my schedule, wanting to get the day over as quickly as possible. The old woman at the front desk handed me my schedule and I headed off to my class.

Lunch was uneventful, and I got bored, so I made an executive decision to skip the rest of the day.

Just as I walked out of the front gates, I was stopped by a voice. "Ditching already?" the voice said, clearly belonging to a boy. "It's the first day, why don't you be a good girl and get to class?"

I scoffed and turned in the boys direction. He was a boy a few inches taller than me with blonde hair cropped close to his scalp. "Excuse me? You're one to talk. Class just started back and you're out here. A tad bit hypocritical of you, don't you think?" I replied, my arms crossed. He chuckled and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

I was tempted to ask him for one, but I didn't risk it. We appeared to be on unfriendly terms at the moment. I turned on my heels and began to walk away, but stopped when he called out for me.

"You want one?" The boy asked, holding out another cigarette. I hesitated, but eventually decided that my urge to smoke was more important than hanging around some cynical asshole. I walked over to him slowly and took it from his fingers, him taking a lighter in the other hand and burning both of our ends.

I took a drag, immediately feeling better and more relaxed. I turned and the blonde boy was doing the same. It was at this moment when I realized something very important,"This kid looks like Peter Murphy."

"Huh?" He said. Oh shit, I said that out loud. "Peter Murphy? Isn't he that singer for Bathouse?" He questioned. "It's actually called Bauhaus, but yeah," I corrected,"They're great."

He brought the cigarette to his lips for another drag. "I've heard of them. Not really my shit. I'm more into industrial." I perked up when I heard this. "You like industrial?"

"Yeah, you listen to any good industrial bands?"

I quickly responded,"Yeah. Skinny Puppy, Front Line Assembly, Nine Inch Nails. That's some of the best music out there!"

"You like Nine Inch Nails?" He asked, seemingly surprised. "Hell yeah I do! Trent Reznor is a goddamn king!" The boy smiled to himself. "You're not as stupid as I thought. Since you're ditching, wanna hang with me and a friend of mine? We're gonna head to my place and watch movies."

I thought for a moment and asked,"Will there be booze?" He chuckled,"Yes, booze will be present. You coming or what?"

"Yeah I'm coming."

Hello friends! Thank you for reading my story. Disclaimer: I do not condone what occurred at Columbine on 4/20/99. This is simply what I believe might have happened if the two shooters had a friend, a shoulder to cry on.