My Story -- Chapter 1

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What you are about to read can be considered the first chapter of “my story.” Perhaps, after reading this, you will get a better understanding of why I, Anthony, act the way I act; and after doing so, if you find that I am crazy, or even insane, I give you full permission to call the authorities. I have dealt with them in the past, and no doubt, I'll deal with them in the future; however, I will not change – why should I? I am who I am, am I not?


the first day of high school made me want to kill myself. To say that everyone was immature would be an understatement – it would be like saying that I love the word hate. Teenagers – actually, more like children – are the most annoying creatures on earth. Thank God I never was one. I hated children, all children. Why, one might ask? Children are annoying. Mainly because they are born so vulnerable, dependent on their parents; then, they grow up to be the “cool” crowd in middle school; and by the time they enter high school, they are obnoxious, outrageous human beings that think they are better than everyone else. They act as if everything in their path belongs to them; and God-forbid someone gets in their way. Teenagers would chew that person up, spit them out, and stomp all over them. Not exactly what I thought high school would be; and to think, I had to spend the next four years here in Hell.

The second day wasn't any better; however, I did talk to more people. The people I talked to – real people who could have a decent, educated conversation – were Carrie McKay, Fran Saunders, and Cotton York. “Biology seems pretty simple: The study of living things. How hard can it be?” Fran said to our group, while walking to second period. “True, but then again, it is only the second day.” Carrie said softly. And then that was it, the end of our conversation. We all walked in silence the rest of the way to English in room 403. I guess some could say it was an awkward silence; but I liked awkward. It kept things interesting.

The rest of the day was a blur; actually, the rest of the week was a blur. All the teachers babying all the freshman, thinking that they are hopeless and pathetic. God, I hated that. I felt like shouting, “Hey teachers, can you do me a favor and maybe not treat me like a three-year-old? Thanks, it would be much appreciated.” But that would be the immature thing to do, and if I wanted to show that I was different than my classmates, saying that would probably not be the best thing for my defense. Then there were the sophomores. “No one likes you Fresh Meat,” they would say. Hmm, interesting; the last time I checked, all the sophomores were “Fresh Meat” not even four months ago. But no, if you dare talk back to a sophomore, an “upperclassman,” you would not survive. I hated that: People thinking they are so great; but I guess I would have to get used to that. I learned something about myself that first week: I hated a lot of things. I feared that hatred might turn into me hating everything, and eventually, everyone.

as carrie and I were eating lunch outside one day, we saw Cotton heading over to our table. He looked excited, as if he won the lottery or something – cliché; God, I hated those. “Did you guys hear about the party this weekend?” he asked. “A party? Didn't school just start last week. There's already going to be a party?” I answered. Carrie said nothing, but that wasn't really a surprise. She talked very little, but she mainly listened; and boy was she good at listening. Someone could tell her a long, dull story about anything, and she would listen to it all, giving her input at the respectable time. I had just met Carrie, but I liked her. No, not like like; just as a friend. “I'm probably not going. My parents would go all good-cop-bad-cop and be like, 'Who's going? Are there going to be drugs there? Well, I think you should go, make new friends. Ah, never-mind, you can't go,'” they laughed at this, and then I continued, “But I'll ask; whose having the party anyway?” Cotton shrugged. “Some junior named Mark. I don't know, go ask Fran. She's the one who told me about it.”

Fran impressed me. It was the second week of freshman year and she had already became friends with most of the student body, including the upperclassmen. It was most likely due to the fact that her cousin was a Junior; but still, it was impressive. I never believed in young love – it seemed fake to me – and needless to say, I wasn't in love with Fran, but she did intrigued me. Infatuation had a funny way of springing up on me. With that said, I made it my life's goal to try to get my parents' permission to go to that party.

“Please, please, please!” I begged. I never begged before, and yet, that afternoon, I found myself on my knees asking my parents if I could go. I hated what Fran was doing to me. “Alright, fine. You can go. But, if you smoke or drink, we'll find out. And you won't be alive for your fifteenth birthday.” They threatened. I paused a little, acting as if I was pondering the statement. I didn't smoke, drink, nor did drugs; but I wanted to be edgy. Not “cool,” just edgy. You know, adding a dramatic effect. After a few moments of silence, I answered them, “Agreed.”

i have been to plenty of parties before: Birthdays, end-of-school, back-to-school, going away, you name it; but nothing could have prepared me for this kind of party. Sure, I guess it could have been considered a back-to-school party, but nothing like I ever imagined. Hundreds, close to a thousand, people were at Mark's house. I made a mental note befriend Mark Layten; not because he was rich, but because he sure knew how to throw a party. This mansion that Mark called “home” was incredibly humongous. I felt like I left Florida, flew into Los Anglos, and arrived at some celebrity's party.

“I feel like I'm on the red carpet or something,” Carrie said. I knew exactly what she meant. I was going to tell her that, but I was still in awe, and couldn't speak. So instead of talking, we just went inside to find Cotton and Fran. Inside was crazy; a little too crazy for my taste. Sure, I liked to have fun, but if you feel the need to suck the soul from your partner's lips, then please get a room. I could see that Carrie was thinking the same thing. “How about we go outside to the back, maybe it will be a lot quieter.” I suggested, almost screaming at the top of my lungs in order to speak above the music. Carrie didn't say anything, but she nodded. I took her hand, and together we pushed our way until we were outside.

“Now, that's better,” I said. “I can actually hear myself think. Any sign of Fran or Cotton?” She looked around, shook her head, and said she would look this way, pointing to the pool. “Alright, I'll go this way. I'll meet up with you in a few so we won't get lost.” We parted, and the search was on. I wanted to see Fran, my Fran. As I looked around the backyard, I realized that outside was, in fact, more wild than inside. Sure, there was no loud music, or people killing each other – er, I mean kissing. But there was, however, drugs and drinking. From the looks of it, the drug of choice was cocaine, and the favored drinks were Patron and Hpnotiq. It felt weird to be this close to drugs and booze. I've seen them in movies and in TV shows, but in reality, they seemed so surreal. I couldn't believe that people actually took drugs and drank illegally, let alone at a high school party. Boy, was I naïve.

I ignored the druggies around me, and kept on looking for my friends. After what felt like forever of searching, I gave up and headed back to meet Carrie. I turned around the corner, and that's when I saw her. No, not Carrie; and no, not Fran. That would have resulted in me being at a state of happiness, relief even. Instead, I felt resentment. I needed to run, I need to break something; break someone. It amazed me that just by looking at someone can bring back all the memories, all the pain, the suffering. I stood there, frozen, starring face-to-face with my past. It had been about two years since I've seen her last. I wish it stayed that way; but it didn't. She walked up next to me, and I found myself saying something I knew I would soon regret. “Cristina? Wow, I've missed you so much.”





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