A/N: This was just an idea that popped into my mind awhile ago, though I only recently wrote it . So, tell me what you think. I wasn't too pleased about it, but I think I got my point across. It's taken from the episode 'Bad Girl McGuire', where Lizzie befriends Angel Lieberman, and turns to the 'dark side'.Well for a show like Lizzie McGuire. Anyway in the end Gordo and Miranda produce a video, about her, and get the old Lizzie back. But what if that video didn't work, and Lizzie remained friends with Angel? How would her life have changed? Read to see... ;-)
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So, yeah
by Crimson Lipstick
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You're crying again. Sharp, deep sobs straight into your pillow. Nobody hears you because as always, your music is up way too loud, vibrating heavily through the walls, and you know that even if anyone did, they wouldn't do anything about it.
You also know you're totally alone.
Sure, Angel might pretend to care, and invite you over if the mood's right, but you know she'd drop you in an second, given the chance. And sure, your parents still love you, somehow, even after all you've done. Love you enough it seems, to send you packing to Aunt Kerry's in Iowa. You heard the telephone conversation perfectly clear.
But Gordo and Miranda, the only two people in the world who ever cared about you (and probably ever will), you dumped in seventh grade. You know how hard they tried; they even made that stupid video, which gave you second thoughts about everything. But then Angel cornered you in the hall next period, and all out of that shit went flying out the window. And the more they tried, the more you pushed them away, until one day, they stopped ringing your house and leaving messages on your locker. Until now when you only see them in the bleak school hallways, occasionally, and where they never seem to properly be able to look you in the eye.
So, yeah, you have no one. Especially after you threw away all your stuffed toys, and humanly comforts. You guess, though, you have your pillow. It smells of smoke, and has make-up smudges all over it, from your shrinking frame, but it does offer a little comfort. And, yeah, you know you're too thin, but it's the only way you can fit into those extra tight clothes, and you know the vegetarianism (it seems the good girl does exist somewhere) doesn't help things at all, but you can't help it. It wasn't just that science video, it was the fact that, maybe, perhaps, you could finally control one aspect of your screwed up life. And again, you just couldn't help it.
You can't help many things. There's something hard prodding at your side; a school project due three days ago. The teacher doesn't bother chasing you up,she knows you're a lost cause, and probably marked down a F for you, the moment she handed out the assignment. She doesn't know the middle school you, the one who strived to do her best (god forbid beating Gordo), and frankly she doesn't care.
Nobody cares. Okay, so maybe they pretend to care, and maybe you have a few friends. But they only want someone to skip class with or get high with, or hook up with, and since you run in the same circles, you might as well all pretend to be friends. It's not like anybody else wants to be friends with a freak like you. You give off this weird vibe, with your heavy make-up, angry stare and loud rock music, that blasts from your stolen headphones. People often make up excuses to get away from you. And like your old friends, nobody ever really seems to look at you anymore.
You don't like looking at yourself either. You hate yourself so badly. You hate your attitude. You hate your skinny jeans, dyed hair and multiple piercings, but you're so pathetic, you don't want to change at the same time. Your brother, Matt, used to tease you mercilessly about your looks. After a couple of glares, a couple of swear words and a couple of broken objects he shut up, and now avoids you at all costs. He hardly ever says a word to you, even to pass the salt. Nobody does. You've become such a bitch, and, oh yeah, such a slut (you've read the toilet walls). You've just changed so god damn much, that nobody even remembers the old you. Or perhaps they just don't want to. It's all one big mess anyway.
Yeah, your whole life is a mess. Anybody can see that. And, god, even though you want to blame it all on that one detention, in seventh grade, you can't. You know of the many opportunities you were given to save yourself that you flatly refused. And you do know, to some extent, how it ended up like this. But you still don't know why. Yeah, that's why now, you spend your days too out if it to remember anything, and you spend your nights with faces you'll never remember (like you'd want to anyway). Your day consists of the clichéd world of drugs, sex and rock'n'roll. After all everything has become so far away, you don't know if you'll ever even be able to touch it again in your life, and you don't know if you even want to, let alone what to do. But then, everybody doesn't expect anything better from you anyway. Except for yourself. And that's the worst bit.
So, yeah, you're crying again.
Just because you can. And just because you know, it's all that can be done anymore.
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