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    This is not an intelligent thing to do. As a high school valedictorian, this is the last place I should be. My life is about doing the best I can possibly do, and making sure I go to college and receive a career as a neuroscientist. I have had my life planned out for a long time now, and this puts a major wrinkle in my map for life. This is a highly irresponsible activity to partake in. I am actually going to egg a house.

     Honestly, I just craved a few friends. I have never experienced anything close to a friend. Perhaps it is because nobody could connect with my genius status, not to sound too narcissistic but I am an eleven year old in twelfth grade.
     At the time, I did not fully grasp the extent to which the group of senior students was manipulating me. They sounded so interested in me, and seemed as if they genuinely wanted me to “hang out” with them. Now I understand they just wanted to see how far an insecure and desperate young girl would go.
     It doesn’t matter anymore now. I tell myself I am not scared, but the way my heart is pounding in my chest only verifies the lie. I look down at my wristwatch and notice my hands viciously shaking. Great, 11:30 p.m. The last thing I need is my mother waking to find my absence.
     As we walk in the darkness to the designated house with an eggy end, the group of seniors joke and practically skip along as if they own this street. As I secretly glare at them, I realize I barely even know their names. I know the main “leader” of their group is Max. I have no clue what the other two boys’ names are, but the two blond girls names both start with M. I mean they are pretty average names, just spelled really strange. Like Maddisynn and Myha or something of that nature.
     “Sssshhhh….,” whispers Max, disturbing my thoughts, “we‘re here.”
     I look up at the large Victorian house as we approach it. This seems just like the kind of house this group would take a particular disliking to. The grass looks as if each blade was cut and measured perfectly with a scissor and ruler. Bushes with some sort of fancy looking flower line the walkway, leading up to a grand front entrance made of—SPLAT.
      An egg yolk oozes down the center of the front door.
      “Hey Quinn, like stop staring at the house and like, help!” One of the blondies says to me. “Like really, you should be grateful we even like brought you along.”
    I roll my eyes at her ignorant remark. As if her words actually hurt me. However, this still does not feel right. I feel like I sense something more than just the fundamental wrongness of egging a house, like something very wrong is happening. I blame my nerves. The human brain is fantastic at creating scenarios that are not actually possible.
     I bend down and pick up an egg out of the carton. My hand is still shaking so much I drop the egg on the ground and it splats on the asphalt.
     “Don’t waste our eggs now, sweetheart,” Max says sarcastically as he and the rest of the group laugh at me. What exactly is so funny about dropping an egg? But something about the way he emphasizes sweetheart makes my stomach form a knot that keeps coiling around itself. I quickly pick up another egg, not as nervous and careful not to drop it. I lift my right arm, baring the egg. I take a step, and launch the egg and it splats on the house. I watch the egg ooze down the shingles of the house.
     I hear cheering. Are these delinquents actually cheering for me because I participated in their absurd idea of entertainment? The group is actually hugging each other in what almost seems like…relief? One of the blondies is actually crying. I am almost disgusted at their utterly odd behavior. Average humans confuse me so much sometimes…..why do I feel different. I am not becoming one of THEM am I? No, I did particularly enjoy throwing that egg, but I do not feel satisfaction I feel fear. Why?
     “He has been tracking us for weeks!” One of the boys says. “Ha! And now we dumped him on you! I can’t believe some kinda child genius actually fell into such a dumb trap!”
     I ignore his rude insults because they do not mean anything to me. I analyze his words, but they mean nothing. What trap? This is not a trap. I am very aware of what is going on, even if I am not proud of it.
     “You see,” The other boy says, “This guy has been threatening us and kinda just showing up everywhere, and when you threw that egg he became your problem. Plus he did this.”  He turns to one side and lifts up the right side of his shirt. And there snaking along from the top of his rib cage to his waist is absolutely the most disgusting scar I have ever seen. It literally seems as though his skin has been flipped inside out and carelessly sewn back together.
      Well that does not make sense, and is highly unlikely. “Are you saying that I just completed some ritual where by throwing an egg against some house, and now this evil guy has been cast out to get me? “ I say with impressive sarcasm.
     “Like, not exactly but that is like his, house and he doesn’t like people like messing with his stuff,” a blondie replies like I am too stupid to already know what they are talking about. Max seems very stiff, and silent.
    “Well this has not been fun, I am returning home now,” I announce. “This has gone from a bad decision, to even worse decision, and now I fear you all are developing severe and sudden brain damage to the point of which is now concerning. Good bye.” I spin on my heel and with a flick of my long black hair I start on my way back home. Not caring what any of them think, because now I understand I do not need friends. They will only embarrass you, because they do not care who you are they will only attempt to make a fool of you. Or they are just absolutely insane, resembling the group of older children I met here tonight. I refuse to call them anything better than children because they behave no better.
      I make a turn right onto my road, and begin to plot the safest route back inside my house. My window? No, the frame is squeaky. I can probably just walk right in through the front door because we do not keep it locked. Well, that was the way I exited the house, but perhaps instead I could—
      …A cold chill blows over my body as if someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. That is not my father’s voice, it is too deep. I do not dare turn around for I fear there is something there. There is not something I am sure. Obviously there is nothing there because it goes against any sort of logic—
      “Don’t turn around Quinn.” 
       It speaks again.
       I do not recall a time in my young life where I was more terrified. I feel a rush of adrenaline run through my body. I freeze. My curious nature is practically tearing me away from any intelligent decision, not calling but screaming in my head to turn around. I feel my head ever so slowly begin to turn, even though it is taking every inch of my will power to try to focus on a smart way out of this dilemma. The rest of my body wins the battle and turns around so slowly I must take me a year to finally turn around.
     “Oh, I told you not to turn around sweetheart.”
    A stinging like a thousand bees stings rips through my face. I feel burning, and stabbing, and throbbing all the kinds of pain just wrapped up into one big hurt on my face. And I do not even catch a glimpse of my attacker as he pursues me. Did he call me sweetheart? 
    The corners of my vision begin to blur. I mistakenly touch my face with a quivering hand, which increases the pain by ten thousand. I look at my hand through dazed eyes. That is not blood. It is probably only sweat. It is... is so hot out here. I thought it was autumn? It is so hot. It is so dark outside…what happened? I just want to curl up on my bed and...Am I on the ground? I am so tired. I am up way past my bed time, mom’s gonna yell at me.
    The stars above me twinkle as if they are giggling at me. What for? I silently ask them. I am really not that funny.  But this exhaustion is stronger than the giggles of the stars….My sight begins to go dark. My vision tunnels.  It is so calm. I…it is so dark now. Will someone come get me, I am very tired. Where….even…am I…?


     KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. “Quinn! Get up for school I don’t need to be any later than I already am!”
     My eyes open at the sound of my name. My vision is blurred like I am looking through a warped glass. My brain feels like a bass drum, pounding and pounding in my skull. Now I guess I know what a hangover feels like. Did I seriously go and egg a house last night? I guess I managed to sneak back in without any major consequences.
    My face feels so dirty and slimy. Did I fall in some kind of mud or something? I better take a shower.
     I slowly stumble and crash into the hardwood floor pain exploding through my knee and surges through the rest of my leg, and I can feel it in every muscle. Why am I so sore?
     Lucky for me the bathroom is right across the hall, so I do not have to drag my body too far. As I turn the shower knob, I wonder if I even had the guts to go out last night. I don’t think I actually did. It was a dream. It had to have been I convince myself. It is a logical explanation. I mean maybe I just fell on the floor during the night and dreamed the whole thing. That is probably why I hurt everywhere and I don’t remember anything. You hardly ever remember dreams.
      I turn to put my pajamas in the laundry hamper and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I make no sense of the horrifying monstrosity I am observing. 
    I stare at my reflection that has scars snaking across my pale face, and into my hairline. Almost as if someone turned my skin inside out, and failed to sew it back with enough care.

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ANND said...
today at 9:49 pm
Excellent article - thought provoking
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