Carson Emily Jones
Notes. ******** NOTES. They can't ask me how my day is. Of course not. No. And it's always the same crap. 'Kiss her' or 'Ask him out'. Seriously? At least give me a challenge. Although she didn't really seem like the kind of person who would be so ticked at this sort of thing, she was. Carson Emily Jones was very deceiving in a lot of ways.
It started in middle school. It was a horrible place. It was the start of the end, and it only got worse and worse. When she was 11, she took the sixth grade off guard. Her hair was a natural red that was short and framed her slightly chubby face. She wore insane clothes, even though she always managed to keep in it dress code. People didn't under stand why everyone knew she was so different. Maybe it was the way that she laughed at the girls who laughed at her. Maybe it was the way she'd kiss all the boys who pointed and stared. Maybe it was the way she would say anything to anyone, and not be at all nervous. But something made her a lot different than the others. Another someone took advantage. They left a simple not with a simple dare with a simple item taped to it. This person ruined her life, and she never knew who it was. She didn't really care, though. Sure, it sucked, but she couldn't picture it another way. So she embraced it and loved it.
Rumors spread like infectious diseases. Did Carson really plunge that piece of broken paperweight into her veins? No. Did everyone think she did? Yes. Some people wanted to watch. Some people wanted to see scars. Some people wanted more than just cuts on her wrists - that was too typical. How about her neck? Her belly? Her hands, along the crease marks? And who was Carson to deprive these people of what they wanted to see? So, she did it. It wasn't fun, or enjoyable to watch her blood drool down the sinks in the bathrooms. But it was fun to see how people covered their mouths to stop from hurling, or how people were waiting at her sides with gauze and bandages.
It became a regular thing. Different people, different glass, different scars... Same feeling. Gradually, it didn't hurt so much. It kind of made her laugh, and sometimes it made her smile. But she figured out that just the occasional bloodletting wasn't going to keep her popular. The crowds waned until no one showed up. People tried to steal her thunder, by taking dares. That was her job, though! She had a few slips of paper daring her to things worse than a few seconds in the bathroom with a sharp object. Things with boys, and things with girls, and things with drugs and cigarettes, and things with things in general. Things with bullies and things with teachers and things with his girlfriend or her boyfriend. So she started to do these things, too.
Titles don't often evaporate in a few months between July and September. Her 6th grade titles carried with her until 7th. She started to only wear longsleeve shirts, but it went unnoticed most of the time, because she lived in New York City. A lot went on, and the least of people's worries were one pale girl running down the street with a longsleeve shirt in the middle of summer. They had to worry about terrorists or economy or something. One little girl... She's not important.
It was the same with her family. Her mom loved her, and so did her dad. But Carson's older sister was in collage! Her brother made the most gorgeous finger painting! Carson was a C-Average daredevil and nothing more. Her parents would ask her how her day was, and nothing more. Not inquire when reports cards came out or if she liked anyone (which she didn't. She had her eyes on bigger things). Just ask if her day was good, and then tell her about how their dog learned to roll over or how her older sister was going to be a doctor, and how her younger brother was a super genius (he was in the first grade and they could already tell!). It made it all the easier to deal with the slight neglect when glass was there to be her best friend.
That was another thing. Carson had no friends. No one said hi to her in the hallways. No one whispered to her and told her who was going out with who. No one sat with her at lunch. She was just there. Every day she'd find a cellphone sitting in the locker rooms or on a chair that fell out of a back pocket. There was practically a newsletter telling about what Carson did now and what she'd do next.
Her rep stuck from seventh to eighth, and eighth to ninth. It stuck into eleventh grade, where Carson spent every day. She had a short, boyish bob of still natural red hair. Her eyes were dark and nearly black. She was a very pale girl, and it probably had to do with the cup or two of blood she lost every day. Or maybe that's just how it would be. Somehow she managed to maintain her weight, which was a little above average and made her tight clothes unflattering. She dressed in very strange ways that could've sold in stores, if anyone would want to wear them.
Most of her clothes were hand painted on. Her red shirt had black and white butterflies zooming up her sleeves, and all coming into a silver heart that cracked and broke over her right breast. A dark net covered her whole top. She would wear black shorts and red leggings and flats, or something along those lines. She was beautiful in a scary sort of way.
This is how she was, and this is how she'll always be.
