The Mutant Chronicles

The Mutant Chronicles

Monday, May 28, 2012

Chapter 2


Mood for the day: Longing, regrets, fear of what’s to come, fear of those lost moments that have forever passed; moments where I was too scared to take a chance and just try. Living day to day. Living? Is that what I’m doing? Not caring what others think of me because my biggest critic will always be me. Walking around everyday hardly able to catch my breath, sad with no idea why, angry, angry all of the time. No reason for it because people genuinely care for me, but I don’t care for me. I want to go away, untraceable, never to be heard from again. I’m tired of being a scattered hot mess.
I closed my laptop and headed for school. I used to write in a journal but not anymore. I don’t want to leave behind ‘The last words of Bella Rose Wyatt’ in some notebook that my mom can discover and then anguish over. As a matter of fact, I intend to crush my laptop so that I can fade happily into oblivion. No one on my blog knows who I am or even what city I live in. They don’t know that in less than a year I will commit suicide. They don’t know that this last year of my life is my ‘magnum opus’. I have 312 followers, give or take some that un-follow me because ‘I need therapy’.
What they don’t seem to understand is that I don’t blog to impress them. I learned something last year when my journalism teacher forced us to write in a journal nonstop. I need to write. Sometimes writing is the only thing that stops my head from spinning and my heart from pounding. I write short stories, poems, my thoughts and feelings and sometimes I post interesting things that I find on the internet—but the last thing that I do it for is to talk to people. I’m sometimes surprised when some adult responds to my post that she is praying for me. It makes me feel violated and angry before I remember that I just wrote my deepest thoughts and potentially 312 people have read them.
Rochelle nudged me in study hall and I looked at her. She gestured with her head and I glanced in that direction. Jay Pembroke.
“He’s looking over here again,” She whispered.
He does stare a lot. When I met his eyes he didn’t even flinch. Of course I was the one to look away first.
“I’m going to go over and say something to him after class because all he ever does is stare. That boy is too shy to come over and actually say something to me.”
I shook my head, eyes still on the pages of my book; The Life of Pi. “Jason’s not shy, he is quiet but that doesn’t make him shy.”
“What’s the difference?”
I was thinking about the way girls tug on his arms and the way he shakes them off. “If Jason doesn’t like you he won’t pretend that he does. If he doesn’t want to be around you he’ll walk away, even if somebody is talking to him.” Rochelle giggled. We’d seen him do it, even rolling his eyes when the girls get out of control. “It’s like he doesn’t waste energy on unimportant things or things that don’t interest him; like…being a star is the bullshit that goes along with doing something he loves; running.”
“You know a lot about J.P.” She grinned, always wanting to discover if I had a crush on somebody. I am the most asexual person in the world in her opinion. She doesn’t understand that I can’t sit with her and gush over this cute boy or that cute boy. No boy wants me gushing over them.
I finally looked at her. Thankfully we sit near the back of the room where our mumbling goes mostly unnoticed. Coach Shannon is too busy pretending to read his class work to pay too much attention, but he will crack skulls if the mumblings turn into full out talking.
“I just watch everybody. Not just the jocks, I watch that kid who wears only black and that nobody ever talks to.”
“Because he smells like a musty basement.” Rochelle giggled a bit too loudly because Coach Shannon lifted his eyes in our direction. We both ducked our heads.
After a moment I continued. “He can draw really good. He’s an artist. I saw the doodles on his notebook. It’s like Keith Haring’s work. I was going to ask him…”
Rochelle watched me intently. “You were going to ask him what?”
She wouldn’t get it. I’d never thought to tell her this because she would never get it. “I was going to ask him to draw me a picture.”
She made a face. “He is a weirdo and will just attach himself to you.” Her eyes brightened. “You’re just hoping that when he pulls out that rifle he won’t shoot you too.” When I didn’t respond she continued. “You’re going to ask him to draw you a picture? Have you ever even talked to him?”
I shook my head and looked down at my book. It would totally ruin my day if he walked past me because he didn’t want to be seen with me. He could turn out to be as much of an ass as everyone else.  
She spent a few minutes talking about Jay this and Jay that and then other cute white boys in our school. She was being enthusiastic about this. I felt kind of bad about the way she was dismissing Andre even though he used to call me mutant and I never told her because I knew she liked him and didn’t need me casting a shadow on it. Ok truthfully, I didn’t tell her that he was one of the bullies that picked on me because it would ruin everything if she still dated him.
These are the people that devastate your life but they are still a part of your ‘universe’, circling you on a regular basis as if you are the sun and they are the planets and the stars. Except that I don’t feel like the star in my own story. I am a supporting character, a prop for everyone else.


At lunch Rochelle and Andre went off to grab a burger. I declined the invitation to go along with them—as I always do. I can tell Andre doesn’t want anything to do with me but he really likes Rochelle and so he just goes through the motions to appease her.
Last year some kid kept yelling out mutant every time I walked by. I am good at ignoring it but Rochelle was with me once and she told Andre. The kid was an underclassman and Andre is pretty big. I don’t know what went down but the boy doesn’t even look in my direction anymore.
So, in some respects it is cool to have a bully along the outer most rings of your ‘universe’.
“Bella Rose.”
I was deep in thought, thinking about how quickly I could grab something from the cafeteria and hit the library. I have a NOOK e-reader but I still like books.
“Bella Rose!”
I turned around in surprise that someone would be calling me. No, that a MALE voice would be calling out to me. Then I saw Jason Pembroke jogging towards me and my brow furrowed. He is truly a good-looking guy but there is a distance in his expression that subtracts from it. He had to be 6’3”and it would be easy to think that he wasn’t much more than skin and bones. But it’s not true, his body is just sleek muscles and not an ounce of fat. His light brown hair is long and reaches his shoulders but he never lets it grow out longer than that. I do like when he pulls it back because then little blond curls sprouts along the back of his neck and sideburns and looks messy and neat at the same time. I’ve always had at least one class with him every year since we were kids. We’ve never been friends but I know him.
I frowned as he came to a stop in front of me and then my expression cleared when I remembered about Rochelle. He wanted to talk to me about Rochelle. My posture instantly relaxed because this is a role that I knew well.  ‘Yes I will pass your messages to this girl or that one, and I will tell you if I think she likes you or if she has been talking to some other guy. Sure I’ll be your go-between.’
He reached into his back pocket. “You left your NOOK back in class.”
I gasped and looked at the faux leather bound e-reader in his hand and then patted my purse feeling the obvious lack of bulk. I usually shoved it in a small slot in the back of my bag and I’d never lost it before but since it’s hooked up to my Mom’s Amazon account it was a good thing that he’d found it.
“Oh thank you!” I reached for it but he suddenly pulled his hand back and opened the cover.
“Are these any good?” The screen was black and I pointed out where he could power it on.
“I like it a lot.”
“I can’t afford an IPad but I want something that I can use to access the internet, some apps and music.”
I shrugged. “This does all of that and is a lot cheaper.” I smirked.  “But most people buy it to read books…”
He grinned and I just kind of froze…well, except that my mouth almost fell open. I don’t remember ever seeing him grin. I barely ever see him speak. But his face transformed somehow and I saw something in it that I had never seen before. It was almost like the face that I had been seeing for all of these years was just a mask and he had let it slip and I was suddenly seeing the real Jason.
“I will use it for that too Bella Rose.”
Oh my God, my skin felt like a feather’s touch could have burned me. His use of my name was new and strange and beautiful. Bella Rose had never sounded so beautiful to me before. 
“What kind of books do you read?”
“Um…” I blinked and stopped staring, “a lot of free books. I usually download from the top 100 free reads list. I have The Walking Dead and some vampire series. And I have all three of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo books.” 
“Oh? I do want to read The Walking Dead. So…If I buy a NOOK do you want to be NOOK friends and then we can share? I already read the Millennium trilogy so it looks like we have some common interests.”
“Uh…yeah. That would be great.” He handed me back the e-reader and this time allowed me to take it.
“Ok. I’ll let you get to lunch.” He turned around and waved at me from behind and I watched him head back down the hall.
I was nowhere near the cafeteria. How did he know I was on my way to lunch?

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Chapter 1

“Bella Rose.”
“Hmm?” I raised my eyes from the book I was reading. We were in study hall; Rochelle and I. Rochelle is my best friend, and she’s also one of the truly beautiful people in our school. At John David McInerny High there is the ‘In’ crowd as well as the ‘misfits’ but it’s not the same way that I imagined high school when I was still a kid and watching movies like The Breakfast Club. What I mean is that sometimes the band geeks are the popular ones. No one wants to be the druggy and the cool girl happens to also be a brainiac.
That is how a person like me can end up having a lot of “friends”, even though I’m not pretty and I read too much. I’m probably too smart for my own good. But this is how it works; the beautiful people feel sorry for me and imagine that I am thankful for their attention. Also, it makes them utterly cool to hang out with me. Isn’t that a sign of popularity; when you are cool enough to be buds with the mutant? It’s the same story with the unattractive people; they are made beautiful in comparison.
This doesn’t mean that I haven’t been scarred by these very same people—scarred worse than the accident ever did. They are my friends but they aren’t. Does that make sense?
“Jay Pembroke keeps looking over here,” Rochelle said. I pushed up my glasses. I like wearing glasses and I used to wear the big bodacious ones--initially because it was something to hide behind. But now I have round glasses like Harry Potter or John Lennon, and somehow I feel a little bit cool in a-hipster-kind of-way.
“He is always looking over here,” she whispered because technically we are not allowed to talk. I glanced around and met Jason’s eyes. His head was resting on his folded arms and he really was staring. I looked away.
“Well you already got a boyfriend, and besides, he knows we’re talking about him so shhh,” I muttered while staring back down at the book I was reading.
Rochelle rolled her eyes at me. “Andre is not my man. He is just somebody that I pass the time with.” I saw her look boldly at Jay. “He definitely is no Jay Pembroke; jock, popular with his tall self.” Ooo she could be such a slut.
“You are going to get us in trouble,” I whispered. “Besides, running track isn’t a sport is it? Like…golf, isn’t a sport.”
“Meh. I think it is. Have you ever seen him run? Anybody that can run like that is definitely a jock.”
He was the best runner in the school. You didn’t have to be a basketball player, or on the football team to be a jock I guess. I’d never seen him run but I knew exactly how he looked. He used to mow our lawn in the summers; back when I was home schooled. I used to watch from the window hoping he wouldn’t see me. I’d been out of school two years and hadn’t seen much of anybody I knew. One day Mom asked me to go out and pay him and I begged her not to make me. I told her that I go to school with him and maybe she saw the desperation in my look. She didn’t make me go out there but the next year she did end my home-schooling.
After study hall I had American Literature. Wow, what a class. I get to read books that I would have read anyways—and then get A’s by writing what I think about them.  We are reading The Life of Pi about this boy who is trapped on a boat drifting at sea with these wild animals; how did he survive? You’re asking me? I do it every day.
After school, I walked home. I can take the school bus but I live really close to the school and can be home in less than twenty minutes. My Mom offered to buy me a car for senior year. I have no idea how she hasn’t figured out my plans for after senior year. I turned down the car because I didn’t want it as a reminder for my mom to have to deal with after I’m gone. Period. I made up a pretty convincing lie, though. I told her that when I turned 18 I’m going to use some of the money from my trust fund to buy a really nice one.
Truth is, I don’t mind walking and I do mind being on the school bus. People don’t mess with me anymore; one cool person stands up for you and the next thing you know, you’re cool, too. The problem is that basically only the younger kids ride them. I’m an upper classmen now and it’s just not cool—unless it’s raining, and then it’s less cool to ride the bus than it is to arrive at school sopping wet.  
I do consider myself a non-conformist. Yet, oddly, I do care about such opinions. This is the first week of the new year; my last year. And I intend to make it a good one, the best one. Can I squeeze everything that I want to accomplish into this last year? Yes.
Mom was at work, she doesn’t get home until nearly six. I started dinner because sometimes she is just really tired. I sent her a quick text to let her know so that she wouldn’t stop and pick something up. And then while the chicken and rice was simmering I finished up my homework.
After dinner Mom wanted to watch a Netflix movie and so we retreated to the family room where we have a nice theater/ entertainment area set up. I grabbed my laptop and navigated to my blog; The Mutant Chronicles.
Blogging is the perfect place for me. It is a place in which I don’t have to hide but where I am free to be a 17 year old optimistic/ pessimist, manic/ depressive suicidal freak who tries to pass it off as humor because that is what all the classy, depressed folks do.
 I typed; Pans Labyrinth just scared the holy crap out of me! What in the hell is that thing with eyes in his hands??? No more Netflix movies right before bedtime for me. Good night blog-followers.

to be continued...

Sunday, April 29, 2012


Modern Journalism
Bell 4
September 4

Okay. What the…Okay so Mrs Landrau said that all we have to do is write without stopping for five full minutes and she said not to worry about punctuation because she will not be grading on spelling or punctuation. She says the only thing that we should be doing is writing non-stop and letting the words feel the page. Ack fill the page. Crap. I can’t do this for five minutes. Thank God she is not going to grade this for

Modern Journalism
Bell 4
September 10

Mrs Landrau was truthful when she said that she would not look at the content of our journal only the length of our submission. She said not to stop writing for an entire fifteen minutes. But I don’t know what to write about. How about I hate this class? Hope she don’t doesn’t read this. I hate how this class is a waste of time and space and energy. She is stting there collecting a paycheck and having us just write non-stop and then she is not even going to grade this! How stupid! Well she is going to grade on how long the submission is but not what we write. So basically I can just sit here and write ladi dah ladi dah ladi dah and fill up the entire page. Haha, naw I won’t do that. Then she will fail my ass. Okay how about this. My name is Bella Rose Wyatt and I’m ugly. Mrs Landrau just looked over at me because she saw I just stopped writing. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I’m supposed

Modern Journalism
Bell 4
October 2

It’s not that bad. This is my second notebook and I have already filled the first one up front and back. When I looked back at it I was completely amazed that I had so much to say. I always wanted to be a writer. It would be the perfect career for someone that has a mask instead of a face. We have to sit for half the bell, twice a week and write and somehow this is going to make us better journalists. I’m looking at Mrs. Landrau. How in the hell did she get such a lucky job? There is no way that she went to school for this. She is supposed to be teaching us how to become journalists. No, I get that she is not teaching us English but how is this going to teach me to write? I’m just saying. Instead of being a writer maybe I should become a teacher and sit at the head of a class pretending to read some paperwork. Yeah, right. Like I could ever sit in front of a roomful of kids and not totally freak them out. I have to select my career carefully, or maybe not. Who cares? Not me. There is just two more years of school. Next year I will be a senior and everything will be better. Not because I’m a senior but because then I will almost be done with this hellish existence. So anyways wite. Write for twenty-five minutes without stopping. I can write a piece of fanfiction, I can write a story or a poem. I can write about my sorry existence or I can write about my dreams and expectations. I can write about the truth or I can write about a lie. I will write about what I know. I know that my being ugly is a necessity of life. Without ugly you can’t gage beauty. Even if only the most beautiful people survived on earth you would still need to know who was the ugliest of all the beautiful people. I accept my role and have learned that I’m valuable to the make-up of the world; the rich need the poor, the beautiful need the ugly.
They call me Mutant here at school but my name is Bella Rose Wyatt. No one calls me Bella, no one calls me Rose; it’s either Bella Rose or Mutant and I don’t care either way. I just wish that my parents hadn’t had such high hopes by giving me such a pretty name. Maybe if my name was…Beulah or Lou Lou then I wouldn’t feel like such a fake. I could live up to a name like that. The teachers could call roll; “Beulah Wyatt?” and when I raised my hand everyone would expect that name to belong to me
Modern Journalism
Bell 4
January 6

Back to school. I hate being back at school. I can’t wait until next year when I am a senior and then I will be done with those CRAP, this! I had a good winter break. Me and Mom stayed home and didn’t go to the family gathering. She knows I can’t stand it and I don’t care if she says that this is your family and they love you despite your scars. Its not true. She knows it and I know it. My cousin’s look at me like I’m a freak and I heard Aunt Linda say that she doesn’t know how my mother endures. I know what she was talking about. I don’t care. Not anymore. One good thing about school is that I get to look at him. L.T. He is tall. He has to be because he is on the basketball team. No, he IS the basketball team. I like him because he is quiet and doesn’t act like the other guys. He is not always trying to be cool. Cool people don’t have to try. He has a neat afro when everybody else is trying to wear dreads or shave their heads. Look, I’m not shallow, I don’t like him just because he’s handsome I like him because of his eyes. He has these sad eyes that never smile. I just want to be the one to make him smile. He is so popular, why doesn’t he smile?
There are some other cute boys here but I don’t like to think about them and they are not going to think about me. I like my friend Rochelle. She is very pretty even though she wears that quick weave and it sorta looks fake. I mean really! How many black girls have straight Asian hair that goes down their back? But she is pretty. She has chocolate skin and dimples in her cheeks. She is kind of fast but maybe I just think that because I’m never going to be fast. LOL, My momma says fast. We say slut, but I don’t think that of Rochelle. She is cool and just living her life. I’m the opposite of fast. I will be slow. Slooooowwwww. Is there a word in my generation for someone like me that will never be kissed, never have sex, never get chosen by any guy? A loser. A mutant. Rochelle never calls me mutant, just Bella Rose like before I looked like this. She’s always been my friend and not because her mother made her do it. Because sometimes parents do stupid things like think they can control who you are and what you will become. Just because they want it doesn’t mean that it will happen. Just because my mom buys me some cool clothes and does my hair real pretty doesn’t make me cool or pretty. As a matter of fact I take my hair down as soon as I get to school. Why doesn’t she understand that everytime she does stuff to try to make me look beautiful she is only making me the brunt of more jokes?! It’s like sticking a ribbon in a guirella’s hair. Gorilla. Crap, so anyways. Lorenzo looked at me today in class and didn’t give me bug eyes or snort. I hate this, because I think that’s what he should do. I’ll be a senior soon. I’ll miss Mrs. Landrau’s class. I’ll miss writing like this and not having to worry about the answer to a problem or some test. That’s why I’m going to wait until after I graduate, so that I can collect all of the things that I might miss.  I’ll miss pizza but not really. Pizza isn’t a good enough reason to keep living. Music! I will truly miss never hearing another beautiful song. I will miss never reading another good book that will make me laugh or cry. I will miss writing a story that make people see people like me; people who are not the most beautiful. I will miss my Mom because she has already lost so much when she lost my Dad. But my Mom is not happy either…I will miss the fact that I will never ever have sex. I will miss…I guess I will miss thinking. I don’t know

Modern Journalism
Bell 4
January 16

Lorenzo Tate broke his hand and everybody was worried about how it will affect him being able to play ball. He didn’t seem like it was a big deal and he got a lot of attention—mainly from girls. I was happy that he didn’t seem to care about one over the other. That is stupid to be jealous. I’m not really, but. Hmmm, what to write, what to write? If I married a good looking person like Lorenzo our kids would be very pretty because the face I have now would not pass on to them, only my old face and my old face was very pretty. I have pictures all over my walls and when I go to bed at night I like to look at them. It’s the last thing I look at every night and I hope I will dream about before the accident. At school people ask me all of the time what happened to my face but I don’t really say. I mean, they know about the accident but they want the whole story and I don’t give anybody that much. Why should I? If they don’t even care enough to talk to me in the halls or during lunch but then will ask me about the most THE MOST horrible thing that could happen then I don’t feel the need to share. Lorenzo Tate, Bella Rose Tate. I love that name but I don’t want to write his name. Miss Landrau does look at the journal just to see how much we write and I don’t want her seeing his name pop up everywhere. I don’t want her knowing what I want, what I like, what I wish for. That is for me and for me alone. But if God could just let me have him then I would stay.
I don’t want it to seem like my life is based only on what I can’t have, so if I can’t get it then I don’t value it. I have thought this through for many years. I don’t want to think about that or those surgeries. That was a bad time and they want to start it all over again when I turn 18. But that ain’t going to happen. When you graduate Bella, we can start reconstruction because then your face will not go through much significant changes.  A long time ago I thought it would be worth sticking around just to see if I would be pretty again. But ugh…The doctor sat me down and looked me deep in my eyes and he told me the truth.
It hurt but I appreciate it now because now I won’t waste my time wishing to look normal—even if I don’t look like I used to I just want a face and not this mask made of skin but is not me. This is not me. I’M ME. MY FACE IS NOT ME.
I had a dream about that man and that he had never got into his car drunk or maybe he did but we crossed paths by just a few minutes. Anything could have delayed us by the few minutes that it would have taken to change every. Maybe I had to go to the bathroom before we left or I stopped to tie my shoes, I don’t know. Five minutes and he would have hit another car and killed another little girl’s father, and ruined the life of a different family. He wrote me a letter from jail and I read it and cried. I cried because I hated him so much for even asking me to forgive him. Him him him. How he feels, what he wants, his fault. His decisions but it’s me that has to live with the consequences. I want him to suffer. And I don’t care if that is not God-like. I hope that hurt him in jail. My Daddy is gone forever and I’m left looking like a monster but I’m supposed to be the bigger person and forgive?! No and the people that tell me I should then I just want to…I want.I wrote him a letter and told him about everything I felt and then I tore it up. He didn’t even deserve a response. I’ll get a boatload of money when I turn 18. But…I’ll never use it. It’s supposed to pay for the surgeries and to help give me a better life. But I’ll be dead. There. I wrote it. I’ll be dead.
I am almost dead. Dead. My mom said that my father died very fast and didn’t suffer. She said that she was happy for that. This is why I know that it will be okay for me to die. You see I am suffering. It’s just that my death is taking so much longer. If my mom understood then she wouldn’t want this for me. I’m tired. I’m only sixteen and this is

Modern Journalism
Bell 4
February 2

I HATE LORENZO TATE! I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM! Nobodyis ever going to love me. Nobody will ever want me. I am nothing, I am less then nothing! Do you think that I don’t know this? I just wanted to I don’t KNOW! But couldn’t I just pretend for a little while? So what is the point of being in the world when I will always be alone? This is all there will ever be. Stand me next to the ugliest, grossiest woman and you know who will get chosen? Not me. Because I went through the windshield. I lost my skin and crushed the bones in my face. My ear had to be reattached! If you harvest skin from my other body parts so that I can have the semblance of a face then the other body parts are now deformed. My back, my legs, my belly. Why did they do this to me?! Was this saving my life? Is this life? I’m not ugly. I am not ugly!!!! I’m just hurt that’s all. It’s going to take more surgery before they can make my face look like something other than a mask. I used to be so pretty. I had a caramel complexion and arched brows and pretty plump lips. My brown eyes were bright and shining and I never knew that I should appreciate what I had because one day I was going to be a monster. I’m not going to ever care about anybody again. I’m never going to want anybody. And I’m not going to wait until I turn 18 because
I’m so tired. Lorenzo is going to think I did it because of him, even if I leave a note saying that I didn’t they will think I did. Everybody at school will take responsibility and maybe in 10 years they will talk about the girl that they used to call mutant and how she had offed herself. They will have regret in their voice when they repeat the story over some social gathering. And they will shake their heads and say, ‘kids are so cruel. If only I had known; If I had just understood.’ Eh. Some want that. Some want to be martyrs. But I don’t. I don’t want my name on your lips! I don’t want you to speculate if it was your actions that pushed me. I don’t want you to take some type of sick pride in your own power, or search for some type of forgiveness for your thoughtlessness. Go to hell! GO TO HELL! I’m not going to do it because of you. I was making plans for this before there was ever a YOU! Before I ever rounded the corner and heard you talking to your friends, before I heard Dominic Shelby say sex ain’t got no face. And then Dennis said that he only cared about what was below the neck. Jorge said Yeah, right. Would you do it with the mutant? I wanted to turn away and not hear the answer just at the same time that I wanted to know what you would say. I wanted the answer to be yes. I wanted somebody to say I don’t care about that, or say that Bella Rose’s face isn’t that bad. We’ve known her since she was a kid. Don’t talk shit about her. They all made gagging noises but you didn’t Lorenzo. You didn’t laugh. You just said that you would if I put a bag over my head.
I learned something about love in that very moment and I swear I’ll never forget it again. Love is not ever going to happen for me—but at least there is the possibility that I might get laid as long as I wear a bag over my head.

Modern Journalism
Bell 4
March 9

My journal disappeared. For two days I couldn’t find it. It was just…I don’t know, the worst feeling in the world. I never meant to write so much about things that I don’t even want to think about. But I suppose they needed to come out because I had buried them so deeply that I didn’t know that it was how I really felt. The thought that someone would have found my journal or taken it and read it and would spread it around…GOD. I thought…I’ll never come back to school. I tore up my bedroom, and I retraced my steps. I looked everywhere and even stayed after school checking the trash cans in each of my classrooms. My journal was gone and I couldn’t sleep. Back at school I rounded every corner expecting to see it pinned to a billboard or something. I even asked Rochelle if she had accidentally taken it. I almost wanted her to have it even though I would have been embarrassed. But she is my friend and the most she would do is knock me in the head for…well my plans for after senior year. No I can’t say it. I can’t say anything ever again. Because I can’t ever take the chance that someone will get there their hands on my inner most thoughts. And then, out of the blue my journal turned up. It was in my locker. But I never put it in my locker. I keep it with me. But it was in my locker. I’m not going to drive myself crazy over it but I’m also done with this scheme that the school has to make me write down everything on my mind. Would Mrs Landrau do something like steal it just to see what I’ve been writing? Would someone actually take it and then give it back? Who would want to know what I’m thinkin?! I’m not putting anymore into writing. Just stories, just unimportant garbage that the rest of these fools are writing! I’m done with this and I’m done with caring. Once upon a time there was an eight year old little girl. Her name was Bella Rose Wyatt and she was beautiful. Her mother didn’t stare into space and wake up in the morning with red rimmed eyes. She had a Dad that loved her. One day they were going out to dinner. Bella Rose Wyatt had a strange urge to go back into the house. I need to use the bathroom. Let me go back into the house for just five more minutes