Black Blood, Black Tears: Chapter 1;

The first chapter of my currently in the process writing book "Black Blood, Black Tears". I hope you like c: And, can you give some contructive critiscm. Please don't just say, oh this is good, or oh this is boring. Tell me what you like about it and what you think I need to work on. It would be greatly appreciated:)

Chapter 1:

I am invisible. No one notices me-not that I wish to be noticed-but, I would appreciate not being bumped into in the halls. I now have a series of bruises on my arm and hip from all the hit-and-run collisions of the dangerous hallway. Maybe, I just shouldn’t come to school at all.

                I pick up my copy of The Complete works of Edgar Allan Poe and head to biology, swimming upstream in the crowd of hungry students headed for lunch.

                Me? Well, I’m the type you’d call the “teacher’s pet”, though, the only problem is, none of the teachers like me. In fact, hardly anyone likes me. My only friends in this world are my books, and my guinea pig, Russell. The fact is, I’m apparently too strange for anyone. I don’t fit in with anyone my age, and due to my brains, I frequently out-smart the teachers, which does not bode well with them. I’ve discovered that most adults tend to think they are right about everything, even if they don’t think they act as so. It is a common mindset for adults, and teenagers alike, to believe they are right, to want to be right. I don’t blame them, it sounds rather nice to be right about everything.

                Of course, many say that I’m right about everything. But, it’s not true. Though, I may be smart in school, my whole self isn’t right. I’m… awkward. What is there to be right about an anti-social, chubby, plain, sixteen year old? Nothing, I say.

“Hello, Ms. Willow.” Mr. Marko said, dazedly.

“I have my essay about Frankenstein’s Relation to Science and Society.”

“Uh-huh.” He grabbed the essay and threw it on a random stack of papers nearby, “Very well, Ms. Willow.”

                I walked out feeling a bit dejected. I worked diligently on that essay. I deserve more than a “very well” and my paper thrown into a pile.

                I stepped outside only to be greeted by a cold rush of wind and the rustling of leaves. As I stepped out further I felt raindrops patter on my head. Sighing, I flung my hood over my head and proceeded quickly to the library before the drizzling rain became a storm.

                The library always smelled like old books and orange. Ms. Ghee had planted her little orange air fresheners out every day for the past two years. She was a sweet lady, old, with wisdom seemingly seeping out of her wrinkly cold hands, and warm eyes.

                I waved to her as I walked in, just as I do every day. We had never had a conversation before, except the first time I checked out a book. From then on, the little communication we had was a wave and a smile. She was an interesting and witty woman. I often heard her speaking to the other students in a fairly sarcastic tone. It was odd, coming from such a woman as her. My only experience with elderly has, in my mind, made them out to be bitter, unfriendly beings defeated by life, and just waiting to die. Ms. Ghee had a kind, happy heart.

                I sat down at one of the twenty tables near the back right of the library, next to the non-fiction section. I pulled out my Edgar Allan Poe book and began reading “King Pest”.

                I tried to begin my boom until I heard the noisy movement of a chair next to me, as someone sat down, then another, and another.

                “Okay, so tell us what happened?” A girl’s voice says lively, animated, curious.

                “Look, I don’t know if it’s the best place…” Another girl says, timidly.

                It is quiet for a second before another girl begins to whisper, “Oh who cares about her, Ali. That’s just Crimson.” She half snarls my name.

                The other girls laugh, and the previously timid girl begins to tell her story.

                “So,” The girl named Ali begins, “I met this guy over the weekend. His name is Brycen, and he told me that he can hook us up with some weed.” She whispers the last word, as if it is some secret that they smoke.

                The two other girls gasp.

                “He knows a couple of guys in Orange County that can hook him up.”

                “Sick.” One girl says.

                “But that’s not all…”One girl says, seeming to think that there is more to Ali’s story.

                “He said he’ll only give me the dope if I become his ‘slave’.” Ali giggles.

                “You mean, slave of love.” They all laugh.

                “Of course! What else would I be talking about?!”

                “What about your boyfriend, though?” One girl asks.

                “Ha. Well, I’m not going to tell him about me and Brycen having sex, of course.” She laughs.

                “Well, what if he finds out?”

                “He didn’t find out about Mike or Geoff, did he?”

                They all laugh again.

                “What ever happened to those two?”

                “Oh, I call them whenever Matt is at work or something, or just whenever I get bored of Matt.” She laughs.

                “You’re bad.” The other girl laughs evilly.

                “Well, I’ve got to have some variety in my life. Not just one boy can do the job.”

                I stood up, disgusting by the sluts, and walked out of the library. Ms. Ghee looked worried. So, I nodded to her to let her know everything was fine.

                I walked over to my next class, sat down, and read there instead. A minute later, a guy walked out of a nearby classroom, slamming the door and sauntered down the hallway. I went back to my book.

About Twelve O’ Clock, One night in the month of October, and during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seaman belonging to the crew of the Free and Easy, a trading schooner plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in the river, were much astonished to find themselves seated in the tap-room of an ale-house in the parish of St. Andrews, London"which ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a “Jolly Tar.”

The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched, and in every other respect agreeing with the general character of such places at the period"was, nevertheless, in opinion of the grotesque groups scattered here and there within it, sufficiently well adapted for its purpose.

                DING. DING. The bell goes off right as a finish the second paragraph.

                “Dammit!” I mumble under my breath.

                “Something wrong?” A voice says next to me.

                I gasp.

                “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” It’s a boy’s voice.

                “No, no. It’s fine. I’m just a scaredy-cat and I get lost in my reading.” I explain, realizing that I sound like a big dork.

                He laughs, but not in the condescending way. It’s more of the yeah-I-totally-agree-with-you kind of laugh. Proving my point, he says, “I know the feeling.”

                I stand up and look at him. He’s tall, with short, chocolate brown hair. His eyes are a deep brown that, for some odd reason, reminds me of the chocolate lake in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

                “Is there a problem?”

                “Oh, no, I’m sorry.” I realized that I was staring, “You just have nice eyes.”

                “Well, thank you.” He smiles. I’m sure he thinks I’m a freak. He’s probably just trying to play it off so as not to upset my feelings. Why must I be so awkward?

                “Well, I umm… better get to class.” I mutter, then step around him to enter the door.

                “Do you have Ms. Beckett, too?”

                “Yeah, Honors English ¾?”

                “That’s the one. It’s right here, isn’t it?” He asks.


                “Well, lead the way, captain.” He holds the door open for me and bows, as if I am some pretty princess.

                I take the six steps to my seat in the back corner of the classroom, sit down, and begin reading King Pest again.

                The rest of the class seeps slowly into the classroom looking full and they’re faces flourished from lunch. The boy with the astonishing eyes sits on my left, which I find odd. He seems like the kind of person to sit towards the front.

                The final bell rings and, sighing, I put away my book.

                “Settle down now, settle down.” The teacher calls to the class. The room quiets down some, but a few people are still talking. “I said, settle down!” She looks frustrated.

                Someone is in a bad mood today. I think to myself.

                The students are quiet. “Now…” She continues telling us about the research project on an author of any choice, any time period.

                “Hey,” the boy says to me, “I don’t think I got your name?”

                “Oh, it’s um…” I said, flustered. I hate my name. It’s so… abnormal. “It’s um… My name is Crimson.”

                I wanted to kick myself in the foot. I just made myself seem more awkward since I probably gave the impression that I completely forgot my name.

                He looks surprised. “Wow.” He says, “That’s a beautiful name.”

                “What’s yours?” I ask, trying to appear as if I didn’t care and I was just trying to be polite.

                “My name’s boring.” He shrugs, “Lee.”

                “I like that name.” I state.

                “Eh. It’s too common.”

                “I guess.” I say.

                “Are you two done yapping back there or am I going to have to give you both lunch detention?” The teacher asks angrily.

                “No ma’am.” I say, trying to sink lower in my seat. I hate attention, it makes me nervous.

                “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Lee says.

                “Then keep your traps shut, especially you Mr. Carter. Receiving lunch detention on your first day will not serve you well.”

                I look over at him sheepishly, attempting to apologize with my eyes. He looks as if he’s struggling not to laugh.

                I ignore him for the rest of the hour, not wanting to get in further trouble. Finally, the bell rings. Finally, I can go home.

                I walk to my old, orange bug and try to open the driver’s side door. I love this car. Sure, it smells like dust and the free pine tree air freshener Rono’s gives you when you wash your car there, but it’s special. It’s my first car. I bought it myself with the money I earned working at the old book store downtown. My father was with me when I bought it. He helped me pick it out. He’d go for a ride with me every Saturday. Until a few weeks ago, until he ran away.

                I know why he left. It was the best choice for him, for us, so we all could be safe. But, he’s still gone.

                I drove home quickly, unsafely seeing as the roads looked slightly icy and frozen over from the drizzle this morning. If only my dad were here. He’d be yelling at me to slow down and be asking what the huge rush is. He’d force me to calm down and make me feel like everything would be okay. But, if he were here, nothing would be wrong. I wouldn’t be accelerating through the streets, desperately attempting to make the ten minute trip home into two minutes.

                The driveway to my house was lined with yesterday’s snow from the snowplows early this morning. It piled up on the yard all the way up to the steps to the front door. It was an old house. My great-great-grandfather had built it for his wife many, many years ago. It was made of brick, which now was faded with the years. The window shutters were a light, woodsy green color and under all the windows were white flower boxes that, when the weather was right, would bloom flowers so beautiful you could hardly believe they were real. The door was a dark, red-brown wood probably made from the ancestors of the huge trees in the forest surrounding the house.

                I hurriedly got out of my car and, with frozen hands, unlocked the front door and stepped into the warm house.

                It always smelt like old wood whenever I walked in. I laid my things on the counter and walked to my room. I locked the door, turned on my radio to some random station that was playing the Beatles, and crawled under my bed. I lay there for a moment to let my eyes adjust so I could find the lock. I punched in the code, snapped the lock open and slowly raised the door. I slowly sunk in the hole and crawled down the little tunnel, after silently closing the door after me. At the end of the tunnel, I jumped down into the open space and switched on the light switch.

                Here it was… my own little sanctity.


The End

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