Whispers In The Dark

Victoria

Victoria

Reximus and I parted ways to head to our locker, and once again I was left to sulk because, well, school had started. Gross.

I pushed through the moving, chattering teenage bodies with difficulty. My foot was stepped on twice, scuffing my beloved combat boots, some jerk elbowed me in the ribs, and I was hit with a wad of spit.

"Say it, don't spray it," I hissed, wiping it away with the back of my hand and transferring it to a random girl's shirt.

He just rolled his eyes and continued talking to his friends, brushing me off like dirt.

"Ass wipe," I mumbled.

I made my way to the locker I had been assigned. I had to step on a few feet of my own, and maybe I also elbowed a few people in the ribs, but I made it.

Every locker was a disgusting shade of puke green, complete with sloppily scrawled expletives and hearts spilling who-loved-who. I entered my combination with a few spins of the dial. I cringed at the shrill shriek that erupted from the hinges as I pulled open the door. I nearly gagged as my nose was violated by the pungent smell of spoiled milk and piss. Despite the smell, the locker was empty.

I just stared into the empty space for a moment before sighing and shutting the door. For a second, I was afraid that the door would fall off the hinges. It didn't.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, accidentally knocking another locker closed. I turned to apologize, but paused as I saw a girl glowering at me.

"Sorry?" I stated it as a question, not sure why she was acting so hostile towards me. It was just a locker.

Her brunette hair had been pulled messily into a clip on her head, but bangs that were angled to the left fell over her forehead. She had cold hazel eyes, void of any emotion and bordered by a thin line of black eyeliner. The rest of her face made up for her eyes when it came to emotion. Her glossy lips were parted in a scowl, jaw tight. Her skin was tan and flawless, with nothing but a light dotting of freckles across her nose. Although I was in my combat boots, she was still an inch or two taller than me. She was clad in black shorts and a tee-shirt that clung to her skin, with black and white low-cut Chuck Taylors.

"What's your problem?" I asked.

She didn't answer. Instead, she turned and began to walk away from me.

"Bitch," I grumbled.

She flipped me the bird behind her back. I narrowed my eyes at her retreating figure and yelled, "Don't break a nail!"

I rolled my eyes, scowling. God, I thought exasperatedly, I hate people.

Oh, well. It seems they hate me, too.