~*~*~*~ Okay, if you got to this because you read my other story, Tattered Souls, then hello again. Otherwise, hi for the first time. This is just a side project that I've been working on when I run out of inspiration for my fantasy-which, if you like fantasy, you should check out. And if you don't like this story, don't let that affect your decision about TS, because my fantasy is written with a completely different style and what-not. This one's desired effect is just too modern-based for me to use the same elegant style that I use on TS.

Anyway, yep. So, let me know what you think, and if you have the time, go and check out TS. It's the one that I hope will become something someday.

Au revoir. ~*~*~*~

Prologue

She'd always been a rather strange one. Your classic oddball, really, although "classic" has a brand new meaning in this world of ours, where it's cool to be the outcast and drab to fit in. And then, at the same time, the middle class sees the "outcasts" as posers. Then, of course, you have those who try to appear middle-class and call the outcasts posers, when really they're just posers posing as middle class. Still, the main focus of this tale fit into none of these categories, and at the same time could have slipped into the middle of any of them and been quite at home. She was what the ones posing as outcasts really strived to be, as far as eccentricity--and authenticity--went. She could write, both tales and poems, and have it come from the heart and be some of the best stuff ever written. The difference between her and the others was that no one ever knew how good her talent truly was, because she never showed it to anyone. Her nails were always short--she'd bitten her nails for as long as she could recall--and they hadn't had nail polish on them since she was six. The way she dressed was... hard to explain. It was not meant to draw eyes to her figure, and yet it attracted the eyes of every male she passed. All of her friends were male--with one exception, but you'll hear about her later. The best thing was that, though her friends were male, there was nothing sexual between her and them--at least, not in her eyes. She had a very athletic build, but never participated in sports. She wore raggedy jeans and whatever tank top suited her that day. Her shoes were the ratty remains of three-year-old used-and-abused dog chew toys.

And yet, she was much stranger than all that. Little things, really, were what pointed out her oddity. She didn't get along with much of anyone, and yet she was always making everyone else laugh. She was a bitch, to put it simply, and this seemed to attract people rather than repel them. She always tried to get away from the center of attention, and always seemed to end up being it. She was honest, brutally honest. If she had an opinion, she gave it to you, straight up, without any of the niceties our culture has grown accustomed to. She was clear, concise, and to the point, in everything. And yet, she hid a great many things from her friends for years, without them ever having the slightest idea of what was going on. She was never thought of as lonely, depressed, were all things that she thought showed weakness in a person's character--either that, or things that were made up by the above-mentioned "posers" who were looking for sympathy. Everyone desired to be wrapped up in a cocoon and hidden from the world's bitterness, she'd always say, but that wasn't how things got done, how you grew up. The only way to truly mature is to experience everything you can and then get over it. The labor of building a bridge was half the experience in getting over a problem, and when others built bridges for you, then you really could only get halfway over the problem before the bridge would begin to wobble and collapse--because, after all, it wasn't meant for you, wasn't designed for you, and when you used things for something that was outside of its purpose, you risked breaking it.

Her school was much smaller than public schools, and they wore uniforms: knee-high navy blue jumpers, with a white collared shirt. Their socks came up over their calves, and they were supposed to wear dress shoes, although this girl wore high-heeled glittering red hooker boots. Her hair came down to her chin, was stringy and thin, and naturally black. Her eyes were a dark, forest green, and always painted some bright color and lined with black. Her lips were painted ruby red, or a plum-like shade of purple. Keira was small, weighing in at only 75 pounds. She was a little over 5'3, although it was mostly legs. Her shoes made her 5'7 and a half.

She walked to school every morning. Her parents lived half an hour away from the school, but she spent every night with her friend, who lived only a few minutes down the road. They started out at 8:00 sharp, reached the school by 8:15, and spent their remaining 15 minutes on "the Trail" near the school, standing in a large circle with the rest of the morning smokers. Two minutes before the bell, they all filtered away to class.

Morning consisted of two classes, the first lasting an hour and forty-five minutes, the second lasting an hour and a half. Lunch was fifty minutes, and the afternoon was distributed differently every day, depending on the mood of the teachers. They didn't have a cafeteria, so lunch was gotten from the surrounding fast-food places. Pizza, Chinese, subs, burgers... they had a lot of variety. Lunch was spent with around a third of it eating, and the rest of it smoking. After school, they met on the Trail again to share laughs and smokes before they all left to go home, do homework, sleep, and then start the whole process over again.