The Adventures Of Frank, The Perpetually Angry Teenager

I was never the noticeable kid. And I wanted to be, in a way. I didn't want to be the dirty blond 6'3" football player dating a cheerleader, I wanted to be the kid with countless piercings and a generous amount of 'guyliner' to go with his jet-black hair. The kid that always carried a lighter and was covered in tattoos or just pen drawings, it didn't matter. I just wanted to be the kid that everyone knew not to fuck with. Unfortunately I tended to flip back and forth between 'nothing' and 'chew toy'.

Today, especially, was just not my day. Sure, my hair's pretty long, but that doesn't mean it's a place to store your fucking gum. I'm looking at you, ugly douchebag who sits behind me in math. And the locker room is never fun. I'm not exactly fit but worse than that I have a multitude of old scars all over that my body that aren't easy to hide.

Something hits me in the head, and I glare at the idiot freshman who though it was a good idea to throw a fucking orange. He just laughs at me and I can feel my anger getting very close to consuming me when the bus finally stops at my house. As I get off, I make sure to hit the damn kid in the face with my backpack (oops, so sorry).

Narrowly avoiding having to talk to my mom, I slip upstairs, tossing my backpack against the wall and flopping down on my messy bed, starting to get a headache. Fucking asshole freshman, oranges fucking hurt!

Well, now that I'm home from school, I have at least seven hours of dull before I can even try to sleep. What do people even do with that much free time? Go to the mall? Actually, a shopping trip might not be such a bad idea. I couldn't really fix the whole piercing thing but I could definitely get some eyeliner and maybe even some new clothes. I breathed a dramatically deep sigh before picking myself up off the bed and (avoiding my mom again) running out to my car.

My car is pretty old, but I love her, and she's never broken down on me, so I can't really complain. On my way to the mall, I turn Pandora all the way up, set to a 'The Used' station. Most of the songs were pretty good, which is more than I've come to expect of the damn app.

The mall is as fucking terrible as I was expecting it to be, and as soon as I get through the doors I want to leave again. But no, I came here for a reason. After finding acceptably cheap eyeliner and getting a new shirt and a few washable felt tipped markers, I escape the place, driving back home and staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out where exactly I'm supposed to put the stuff.

After a few failed tries I have a few wavering black marks around my eyes and, frustrated, I try to rub them off with my fists. Not sure why I thought that would work. Of course, it just ended up smudging them further and well, to be honest I kind of like the way it looks. It makes me look tired and in the mood for murder, which of course I always was.

Shrugging to myself, I sit back down on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. My brain is kind of in a haze right now. Everything seems a little weird, a little off. What am I even fucking doing here? Like, what the fuck? It's not like I'm doing anything for anyone.

Growling under my breath, I turn my music up, trying to drown out my emotions, but it only pumps more adrenaline through my veins and makes me angrier. No one fucking asked me if I wanted to live this pathetic, worthless life. And now I just have to fucking deal with it. Sighing heavily, I lay down on my back, staring up at my boring-as-fuck ceiling. Plain white. No color, not even a little gray. Nothing. It made me want to spray-paint it red.

I close my eyes, imagining red liquid pool in the center of the ceiling and drip down onto my face. It started as paint, but it quickly turned to blood.

I sit up abruptly, and actually reach up to feel my face, making sure there's no blood. Sometimes things I imagine just feel so real.

A few strange fantasies and half finished poems later, it's finally dark out and I slip into an uneasy sleep.

Notes

I dunno I especially love the idea of band fiction because you can read all you want about them online or in magazines, and you can meet them and talk to them for awhile, but the majority of us will never really know them, which is kind of depressing but it also means you can make their character pretty much whatever you want. So yeah, I wanted to know what would happen if I made Frank an angry teen that wants to be more punk.

Also it's really hard for me to write in this format, I hope I didn't slip up.