Ashes to Ashes

I woke up to the sound of my mother's gentle humming, a melodic drone that seemed to vibrate through the walls of my room. The sunlight filtering through the black curtains was a gentle mockery, a reminder that even on the darkest of days, the world outside would always try to intrude. I lay in bed, surrounded by the familiar comforts of my cluttered, velvet-draped sanctuary, and let out a disinterested sigh. Another day, another opportunity to indulge in the farce that was high school. My name is Angel, a label bestowed upon me by my hippie parents, who no doubt thought it would bring me good luck. Little did they know, it was a cruel irony. I wasn't exactly the angelic type. My style was more along the lines of Wednesday Addams – a morbid fascination with the dark and unknown, paired with an affinity for clever wordplay and a sharp tongue. As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my black fishnet stockings caught my attention. A faint hole near the toe would have to be repaired. I mentally filed it under "things to do today," along with "tolerating the inane chatter of my classmates" and "avoiding the overly enthusiastic hellos from our school's resident socialites." Downstairs, my mother was making pancakes, the sweet scent of batter and syrup wafting up to my room. My stomach growled, and I begrudgingly got to my feet. I shuffled to the bathroom, flipping on the light switch to reveal a space adorned with Edgar Allan Poe quotes and a few well-placed cobwebs (artificial, of course). I began to mechanically go through my morning routine, washing my face, brushing my teeth, and running a comb through my long, curly black hair. My makeup was a different story altogether. I took a certain pride in crafting my Kiss-inspired goth look – dark eyeliner, pale skin, and bold lip colors. It was a carefully constructed mask, one that kept people at arm's length and allowed me to observe the world around me with a detached air. As I finished getting ready, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. For a moment, I let my gaze linger on my reflection, taking in the pierced nose, the collection of silver hoops, and the studious expression. I turned away, uninterested in my own appearance. My mom called out from downstairs, "Angel, breakfast is ready!" I rolled my eyes and made my way to the kitchen. My dad, sporting his signature long hair and tie-dye shirt, beamed at me from across the table. "Hey, kiddo! First day of school, and you're looking...different." He chuckled. I raised an eyebrow. "Different?" I repeated, pouring myself a cup of black coffee. "Yeah, you know, your...style. It's, uh, quite...goth." He awkwardly patted my hand. My mom intervened, saving me from having to respond. "Honey, don't worry about it. Angel's just expressing herself." The ride to school was uneventful, the warm sunshine and chirping birds outside my window a stark contrast to my melancholy mood. As I stepped out of the car, I noticed a commotion near the entrance. A group of students were gathered around a tall, dirty-blonde boy, laughing and chatting with him. He was grinning, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his athletic build was evident even under his casual clothes. For a moment, I was annoyed by the noise, the brightness of his smile, and the way everyone seemed to be drawn to him. Who was this...interloper, and why was he disrupting the carefully crafted monotony of my school day? With a quiet scowl, I pushed my way through the crowd, leaving the boy and his admirers behind. The bell rang, signaling the start of another tedious day. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the hours ahead, and walked into the abyss that was high school.