Try to find out, what makes you tick.
Punk rock blasted from her iPod as Bec painted her nails a thick black. She relished the dark grungy colour, matching her mood and her clothing. Sore and sick.
Her head hurt and her ears stung from the loud music but she didn’t care. She was sick of caring. She had cared about him and now he was gone; probably with someone else now. No love, there is no love.
She laced her Docs and straightened her tartan skirt. Her long black hair hung over her face, hiding her eyeliner-laced eyes. She knew she was a stereotype. “Stereotypes are only that way because they are true,” she said aloud. I still try to find my place.
Locking her dorm room, she scuffed her way down the corridor and out into the too sunny day. Bec was depressed it wasn’t raining. It would have seemed fitting.
She had no idea where she was heading. Probably to get drunk at midday or maybe to find him. To show him what he was missing. She liked confrontation. There’s a fine line between love and hate.