The Mortician's Daughter™ ♥ Andy "Six" Biersack

The Mortician's Daughter ♥ Andy "Six" Biersack {Chapter 1}

The Mortician's Daughter ♥ Andy Biersack

Chapter 1

(A/N: BVB is not technically in this chapter yet... Andy makes an online appearance though. Just warning you.)

"So I was thinking," I said, bending over the desk and folding my arms on it, "about a new story. Not necessarily front page, but I would like something other than the poetry section. Not that I don't love writing poetry for the paper, but..."

Peter bit the top of his pen. "What did you have in mind?"

"Okay." I flopped down in the chair. "So I was thinking about teen stereotypes and mistreatments and fads among certain 'cliques'."

"'Cliques' being your clique. Right?"

"No... I don't like being considered in a clique. But okay, I want to do a story about the opression of goths/emos/scene kids. So what? It's a big issue in schools all over the world."

Peter fake-sighed. "You think this story will go over well? Fine. It's yours."

"Squee! Thank you!"

"What are you planning to do to develop this story?"

"Actually," I said, "I'm going to try to get an interview--at the suggestion of one of my--er--fans--with someone who faced exactly the type of oppression I'm talking about all through school and came back against all odds to become semi-famous. The problem being that said person is semi-famous, so getting an interview might be a bit of a problem. But I'm on it."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "You realize you can get access by saying your a reporter, right?"

"Not necessarily. But come on. It's me. I will get this interview."

He laughed. "That's my girl."

As I walked out of The Office, all the females in there glared at me on my way out the door. I was used to this. All the 'she only has a job at this paper because her boyfriend's the editor' and 'what does he see in her? He needs someone like him. Not a monster girl.' It was at this point I always wanted to point out that I am not goth, nor emo, or even scene. I was just me and there was no label that needed to be placed just because I wore more black and more makeup and just "different" than them. But I always just held my tongue, pretending I didn't hear a word they said. Yes, I had one of the most coveted boys in the world for my boyfriend. And you know what, I didn't make him love me. For whatever odd reason, someone "normal" like him did love me, the "scene/goth/emo/punk" tomboy, the journalist, the geek, the mortician's daughter. That fact about my dad alone was enough to get me made fun of, and then I had to go and dress all macabre because of it. Go figure.

My dad was a mortician (and sometimes a coroner at the local morgue, when a mortician alone did not profit enough). He owned the funeral home he also worked at. I found all of it fascinating. Ever since I was a little girl, I would love looking at the cadavers and watch my father do his work. Then I started helping him with the cadavers, and now I lived for that. Most everyone would have been grossed out by the dead bodies, but not me. Now that was not what had turned me all dark, but I was kind of destined to be a tomboy anyway, growing up with no mother. I just absolutely love death (obviously) and dark colors, dark makeup, piercings, some tattoos (not on me, on the guys I date. Not that Peter would ever have a tattoo, for all the three and three-fourths years we've been dating, and the year I knew him before that), black painted nails, fishnets, chains, stitches and scars, dyed black hair with colorful streaks, teased layers and razored bangs... I loved all of that.

I walked all the way down to Rose Thorn Funeral Home. Masochistically enough, my father named it after my mother, who had me out of wedlock, then abandoned me on his front porch, wanting nothing to do with either of us. And yet, after all of that, my father was still so in love with her he named his funeral home after her.