Fan Fiction ❯ How To Kill Friends And Hurt Everyone You Love ❯ How To Kill Friends And Hurt Everyone You Love ( Chapter 1 )

STEP 1: FAKE IT

Suddenly we're part of a cold heartless world

Suddenly there's nothing left to explore

Suddenly you're not the sweet and innocent girl

You're the one at the party, passed out on the floor

[Shish: When It Hits]

I gasped as I felt the searing pain rush up my belly, heating every millimeter of my flesh as it went.

"All done," Dave said, and pulled out a cigarette. I forced a laugh and looked down to my stomach.

There was an inch-long safety pin sticking through my belly button. Only the two ends of the pin were visible; the rest was hidden beneath my now red skin. I watched as a trickle of blood seeped out and dribbled across my tummy, and down my back. Oh god, why had I let them mutilate me like this? It wasn't at all like me. I liked to stay home and watch T.V., read sci-fi novels, and eat cold pizza. I wasn't the type to sneak out AT NIGHT to get my belly button pierced by a friend of a friend in the home of someone I hardly knew. And on their dining room table, no less. I could get an infection. What if I had to go to hospital? What would my parents say? I winced at the thought of my towering father and my overreacting mother. How was I roped into this? Oh God…

I realized that Dave and his friend, whose name I was still unaware of, were looking at me expectantly.

"Uh… cool…" I said as enthusiastically as I could. Dave smiled and held out his hand to help me up. I tried to steady my already shaken nerves and gripped his hand. My legs felt like jelly, and my whole middle was throbbing. It felt like it had swollen to twice, maybe thrice its size. I shut my eyes to try to block out the headache that was raging through my skull.

Dave let go of my hand and I had to reach for the side bench to steady myself. He pulled out his lighter. The yellow-orange flame gave his face a slightly inhuman look. He sucked deep, the red end of the fag glowing bright. The smoke twisted around the air, as if it was doing some sort of strange dance. Dave's breath whooshed out and the smoke started to fade. It dispersed into the air, and then disappeared altogether.

He held out the cigarette towards me. I hesitated before taking it and putting the filter to my lips. I shut my eyes and took my first drag.

I could feel it choking me. It filled my lungs `til the point of near suffocation. The foul, sickening taste of nicotine I'd been taught to hate stuck to my tongue. It stuck to my cheeks and stuck to my teeth. I suppressed a cough and blew the smoke out my nose. That was another big mistake. My nose stung and my eyes started to water.

"Don't you hate when you get smoke in your eyes?" Dave's friend asked as he took the cigarette and put it to his own lips. I nodded, and said a silent `thank you' for not letting him realize how inexperienced I was.

"I'd better be going," I said in a small voice, before they could convince me to do anything else stupid.

"Ok. Do you want a lift home?" asked Dave's friend. I just wanted to get home, and I didn't care how. So before I'd thought about it, I had nodded and we'd said goodbye to Dave.

We walked out the door, onto the street. It was only then that it hit me what was actually happening. I was getting a lift home with a friend of a friend from someone's house that I didn't know, after smoking and getting my belly button pierced.

He pulled out a set of keys, and I watched in horror as he jammed them into the ignition of nothing less than a motorbike. The only thing that seemed to be holding it together was duct tape.

Just when I thought the night couldn't get any worse, I hopped onto the bike. Instantly the pain in my belly was renewed. The red and angry skin around the pin throbbed as my stomach pressed against his back.

I sat on the bike, and tried to hold back tears of frustration directed mostly at myself. I was getting a lift home, after midnight, with a male friend, of a friend, from someone's house that I didn't know, after smoking and getting my belly button pierced, on a dining room table, with no disinfectant or safety to speak of, on a motorbike. Oh God…

* * *

Four years later and I'm still reliving that night. Although, now, I have eight earrings, and a nose ring. I also have a tattoo, but I still kept that belly ring (or should I say safety pin).

Anyway, this is the story of how I got to be from the sweet and innocent thirteen-year-old Violet, crying because she got a piercing, to what I am today. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but I remember my friend Cameron and I once had a conversation a bit like this:

"There is at least one person out there that reckons deep down, I'm this elegant sophisticated chick who can do anything, and make it look classy. Even if it's telling a guy I wanted to suck him off by playing with my hair stick. You know, with my tongue," I explained to Cameron, looking up at her.

"The rest of the world reckons I'm a rebel slut and the only thing I'll ever do is start up a one-hit wonder rock band and end up working in a dead end arts industry job," I continued monotonously.

"On the other hand, I could just be someone who's trying to hard to be both those things that she gets stuck in the middle. Stuck being a sophisticated rebel who likes to play guitars and lick stuff," I said, crinkling my nose at the idea. Cameron stifled a laugh, and smiled.

"Well I don't really think you're any of them, but I think you do the `sexy, tough, bad-girl' thing really well. It's all to do with attitude my dear," she stopped and smiled at what she'd just said. "I'm not sure you're the classy thing as much, but I do think you can pretty much do anything you want, and make it look good. Or at least, fun.

"I think you're… I don't know," she tilted her head to the side and looked at me. "You're the only person I know who can make a simple T and jeans look damn sexy."

I raised an eyebrow and wanted to reply, but she held up a finger to silence me.

"I haven't finished yet. You've got an attitude that I'll never get but would love to possess. And… I don't know… as I said, you do the `sexy, tough, bad-girl' thing really well. You make it work."

There was a comfortable silence that lasted for a few seconds, before she continued.

"Though sometimes… I swear to god… I hate some of the stuff you do so bad."

Cameron slid off the car bonnet we were sitting on, and walked away.

I don't know what I am, but I do know what I am not. I am not naïve. And I am grateful for it.

When I think about how I saw the world four years ago, it makes me feel sorry for my former self. It's awful to know that I thought the worst things that could happen to me are things like an addiction to drugs, or stabbing someone, or developing an eating disorder. I know now that there are worse things. Much worse things. Things that you can't forgive yourself for, because you know you can't fix them. Having the knowledge that things wouldn't have turned out as well as they could if you had just let them be. That if you had thought about other people and how your actions were affecting them, you might be a bit better off.

Sure, it wasn't great to see what was happening in a world you didn't want to be a part of. But I would much rather see everything, including all the bad, than to be blind to it all.

My life's a soap opera

A song on the TV

A one hit wonder

That's all I'll ever be

[Shish: Star for A Day]