CUT UP ANGELS

It's a cliché. Everything; it's all clichéd. It's all been done before. Original content is about impossible to find in days like these. I guess it all started around the time of Shakespeare; he came up with the worst of them. People admire his 'tragic' stories, but what is Romeo and Juliet? A love story of romance and anguish? Or simple gossip of a fourteen year old girl who had sex with a guy immediately after meeting him, but then killed herself not long afterwards? Most would rely on the foremost suggestion, but in my mind it is the latter. Nothing is original. Nothing is true or fake. Everything is glamorized. It's simple really.

This brings me to the beginning of my own cliché. Him. Ever since I first saw him, I was sure of only one thing: he owns me.

At first I was confused by this. I didn't know what it meant, and I didn't know what I was feeling. I knew that I was his, but I didn't know in which context I would be owned. It was the quick fleeting glance that our eyes shared this morning that sent shivers riveting down my spine. It told me something. There was dominance in those hazel orbs. Dominance and the lust to possess; to use. He had me locked up from the very moment that I saw a smirk crawl across his lips as he stared in my direction. He wanted me, and oh could I see it.

I'm not being big headed. I'm not 'jumping to conclusions' or getting ahead of myself. I fucking know things. I don't know how, I just do. And this boy is a prime example of this, because I know that he wants me. The desire was written all over his perfect pale features, unnoticed to anyone but me. How others couldn't see it, I have no idea. It's because they're stupid. This boy is smarter though; he's not like the others. I can tell.

It's his first day today. Most people would think that a small, greasy haired boy like him would last only a few days in a place like this. They would assume he would end up like me: cast out, bullied, 'broken' and beaten. But I know different, I just do. There was defiance in his eyes, and I can tell exactly which crowd he will be mixing in with. He'll be at the top with the other assholes, but he's not like them. They don't know this though, and I don't think they ever will. Really, he's just like me. I know he is.

He walked in with tight curls in the corner of his lips, his eyes narrowed slightly as he passed judgement over the rest of the school. His hands were angry fists in his pockets, most likely clutching onto a precious cell phone or iPod. Those things are seriously fucking personal. My music library? It's all that gives me hope to survive each dragging day. This boy's attitude to that is the same as mine. He's irritated, pissed off at the ridiculous movement around him. The people arguing, girls gossiping, children laughing. It makes him feel sick. He is above everyone else as he slaunters ahead. I continue to watch him as he slows his pace down slightly, his legs carrying him toward the inevitable gang of 'welcomers'. Anxiety? No. He's not scared; he just can't be assed with it all. Yet, he greets them with a pearly white smile, his face glowing with charisma. Ha, I think that's what I was lacking on my first day. If only I had his charm, then maybe I wouldn't have been tossed to the side upon the initial inspection. I'm fine with what I have though. I like being on my own; by myself. There is less stupidity around me to dirty my thoughts.

It's on his 'tour' of the school that we share our first connection. As usual, I'm keeping to my own space at the back of the building when I hear them approaching. It's not that I'm a depressing Goth kid who likes to hide from everybody; it's more because of how I'm the only moderately intelligent human being within the nine hundred students here. It's hard to carry a conversation with someone who doesn't even know what an oxymoron is. Retards.

"And here you see the emo, in its natural habitat. Cigarette in hand and sketchpad in the other, he is a perfect example of the least common piece of wildlife here at Belleville High. No doubt he has a knife in his back pocket, but no need to fear; he won't attack you, he'll simply sit there and cut himself instead," Jackson decides to be the prick who introduces me to his new 'friend'. They all laugh as he gestures toward me, before one of them decides to throw a God dammed sandwich at my face. I let out a deep sigh of resignation before lifting my gaze to the new kid. It's now that I feel sparks tear through me.

I feel ridiculous, if I'm honest. I never believed in true love. All of that crap is Shakespeare garbage. Disgusting. Yet despite my strong opposed feelings, I feel myself burning as our eyes lock together. I think I stare for a moment too long, but he smirks. That smile. Those eyes. He's telling me something, but I don't know what. It's now that I drop my sights back down to my art. Defiantly in response to Jackson's description of me, I take a long drag from my cigarette before picking up my pen and carving another bold black line down my page. I'm drawing a vampire. It's fucking rad.

"But yeah," Jackson continues. "We'll play with this fag later. Oh did I mention? He's gay. Faggot. But c'mon, we can fuck him over at lunch, I wanna introduce you to the cheer leading squad," the irritating blonde waggles his eyebrows at the hazel eyed boy, before punching him in the arm. For a quick moment, I can see a flash of anger in the new kid's eyes, but he smiles it off and plays nice. He doesn't look at me again before they leave.

I've only seen him for a second, but I've already made up my mind. Hell, I don't even know his name. But this doesn't matter. I know exactly what he's like; I know exactly how he is. Like me, but an opposite. I'm submissive. He's dominant.

Notes

opinions plz