Wake up. Go to school. Go home. Go to bed. This was a normal day's schedule. However, today was evidently not going to be normal.
I did wake up, as usual. My mother yelled at me, threatened me, to get out of bed, as usual. I refused until she came upstairs and punched me hard in the gut, as usual. At least she was smart and only beat me in places that were easily hidden – places easily kept from suspicious eyes.
It was me that made the wounds on my arms. Just a way to vent my frustrations and sadness. Feel physically, as opposed to mentally. It was easier to deal with. There was a small knife in my closet, hidden in a box full of feathers. An ironic place to put it, I suppose. Mother didn't know about it, but if she did, I doubt she would've cared.
She dragged me by my (hair length), (hair color) hair, out of my not-so-plush bed, pushed me up against the wall. Tears sprang to my (eye color) eyes, but I held them back as she whispered in my ear "Why don't you ever listen to me? Why do you make me do these things? Make me hurt you?" I knew they were lies, but she was always able to put so much sadness into her voice, seeing as how she was a great actress before she met my dad and had me. She made me guilty, every time.
My dad. He was the reason she was like this – not directly, of course. You see, he was in the Marines, deployed in Afghanistan. Some stupid terrorist just had to bomb the plane that he was on - when he was on his way home for good.
Need I say more?
My mother was never the same. She drank, lost her job, started beating me – all of the cliché things a widow with a kid does. I had to start calling her "ma'am" instead of "mom". Give her the respect she "deserves". I was unhappy, to say the least. Not because of the things she did, though. I blamed myself for not being able to comfort her when it started and avoid all of these problems. I was unhappy because I was weak. I didn't have the emotional strength to do anything.
To stop her.
To call out for help.
To just end it all.
Anyways, this was a daily routine. She dropped me, muttering insults. "Get dressed," she spat and stormed out my bedroom door.
"Yes, ma'am," I held back from snapping. I slapped on the first clothes I saw, decided to skip breakfast, and headed out the door to school.
Across the street, I saw that the new house had finally been sold. There was a light blue Vespa scooter parked out front, along with a yellow Lamborghini Murciélago and a red Ferrari Barchetta. Obviously Italians. Rich ones, at that. Turning towards school, I heard a cry and caught a glimpse of reddish- brown hair racing past me, leaving a trail of dust. I glanced back and saw a man with darker hair yelling angrily and shaking his fist. I quickly wheeled around and started towards school.
I walked to school with my head down, not thinking about anything but the exhausting day ahead of me. I barely made it in the door of my homeroom class when the bell rang and the teacher told us to take our seats. Nobody heard him, or if they did he was ignored. I made my way to the back corner desk and plopped down to stare at the teacher yelling at the rest of the class.
"Alright, everybody," he said when he finally got everything under control, "We have a new student from Italy," he beckoned to the door.
As he walked into the classroom, all of the girls gasped - and I must admit, so did I. He was the same guy from earlier – an amazingly gorgeous guy, I realized now. He had on stylish European clothes: faded blue jeans, a blue checkered blazer, a grey checkered scarf and brown dress shoes, green dress shirt, unbuttoned just within school guidelines so I could see the slightest bit of his well-toned chest. He was tanned just the right shade, with the reddish-brown hair and an odd curl sticking out from his left. His eyes were closed, but it somehow looked normal. He had soft looking lips and a slight bulge - Wait, what?! I asked myself, shocked. No going there!
I heard the teacher say my name and saw him point in my direction and suddenly the new kid was sitting next to me.
"Ciao, bella~!"
Oh, jeez. A sexy accent.
"I'm Feliciano Vargas, but you can call me Feliciano."
My mind raced to remember the little Italian I knew. Ciao...that can mean hello or goodbye, right? Probably hello in this case…..and Bella...that's a name…?
"Uh, my name's (first name)..." Brilliant... I mentally face-palmed.
A look of confusion passed over his face. "I know. The teacher told me."
"Miss (last name)," (teacher's name) said. "I believe you can make sure Mr. Vargas is caught up in class?" I nodded.
The Italian mentioned perked up at this and shouted in excitement. "Sìììììììì~! We get to be study-buddies~!"
This was going to be interesting…..