He is beautiful.

Beautiful, bold and brutal.

I've been utterly convinced since the very first time I bumped into him accidentally and bruised my knees back in third grade that I was in love with him.

I am now a junior in high school and pathetically enough, my infatuation with him still has not left me. I honestly don't know why I even like him. I'm not a superficial person and back then, he didn't possess a six-pack or toned biceps and a gorgeous summer tan.

Where I lived, he reigned supreme. His word is law. His wrath is unimaginably cruel. His closest friends feared him and his bank account consisted of twelve digit numbers.

Joshua Rodriguez, the epitome of harshness, attractiveness and darkness. He is the drug everyone in this town is helplessly addicted to. He is the cigarette everyone endlessly consumed and depended on. He is the brilliant mastermind and evil genius hidden behind his flawlessly chiselled body. He is legally eighteen and his parents and his little sister had just died in a car accident a few months ago. In the beginning he'd always been cold. After the accident, he had turned so frigid and icy; it burns deeper than fireballs of supernovas. You will only know what I'm talking about once you try and talk to him, according to rumours; he is scarier than our perverted old school janitor is.

Still, I wanted Joshua for an inexplicable reason that isn't there. I just wanted him, is that so wrong?

It is unnatural to be that graceful, sexy and seductive I had once told myself and indeed, he already had most of this town firmly bewitched under his spell. They are eager to please minions, willing to sacrifice anything at his merest hints and slaves to his every whim. He is not conceited but cynical and snide not to mention overly assertive or power hungry. He is cheeky and impulsive, playful but sombre and thrilled bossing people around. He is an enigma to everyone around me, including me and everyday; I'd watch him rule our high school, having no idea of my existence. He wouldn't care who I was. I could be the next supermodel and he wouldn't spare me a glance. His persona is a combination of cyanide, liquid nitrogen and hydrochloric acid masked by the scent of freshly baked stuffed chicken.

He shares Advanced Placement Physics and Accelerated Extension English with me every day. He sits directly five rows behind me, at the very back and I sit right in front of the teacher's desk like the little geeky teacher's pet I am.

Oh how I wish those stories where the popular guy who notices the invisible girl are true. How I longed for a modus operandi fairytale of my own to come true. Why did it always seem so simple in books? Why can't fiction become real for once? I lost myself in my wistful daydreams and doodled in the margins of my course book aimlessly. I begrudge this class. History has never interested me nor has memory recall about past event dates ever been my strong point. Sixteen more minutes of torture in this shabby little classroom and I had a free period. I've never felt time run slower as I stared pointedly at the clock by the blackboard tick agonizingly deliberate and mentally asked if God is punishing me for the time I stole all the gingerbread men from the cookie jar a few months ago.

"Miss Coleman, why are you drooling in my class?" I wrenched my head up from staring emptily at my desk and flushed. The bitch from hell hated me just because I couldn't recite every single event that has happened in the timeline of the birth of America.

As expected, my entire History class erupted into jeers and sneering laughter and I felt anger and embarrassment surge through my blood. I hastily wipe the saliva from my chin and stared at my lap, blazing with indignation. This is harassment damn it and is prohibited! If I was anyone else in the except mousy little Emily Leona Coleman, I'd stand my ground and maybe find some courage and head to the dean to had a good bitch after this lesson but unfortunately, I was little mousy Emily Leona Coleman and no someone else so I just took deep breaths and closed my eyes, telling myself that soon I'll escape to the library and waste my free period writing typical depressing poetry like almost every other soon-to-be seventeen year old girl out there.

This is harassment. This is malicious. This is unfair. If only I had a backbone. My thoughts may not be too timid but I was utterly terrified against the prospect of standing up for myself and speaking my mind. My heart would leap into my throat and nausea would claw at me if I even tried to imagine finding the foolhardy non-existent courage to stand up for myself and defend myself from insults.

Maybe I should buy myself some 'How to Be Assertive' or 'Improve Your Self-Esteem' books. At the rate I'm going, my parents will probably be glad to get rid of me.

Now I'm not exaggerating or making up things to get attention. My parents do hate me. My mother is a former supermodel and after she had me, the stretch marks and pregnancy weight never completely left and she blamed me. My mother is a socialite and ditzy trophy wife. She's snobby and ashamed to be my mother, as I inherited none of her stunning looks. I only got her measly little near anorexic body and I'm not proud of my twig frame. I remember the one time my mother had a conversation with me that exceeded three minutes clearly as yesterday. It is Christmas and I was six years old. She crouched in front of the fireplace, snatched my cookie out of my hand, threw it into the fire in the fireplace and told me sternly," I had to put up with hell giving birth to you. I wish you are never born. I'm not your mother; don't call me your mother because you sure as hell ain't my daughter. So glad we've had this talk, ta-ta."

She then sauntered back upstairs and left me there crying in the living room. She is sober and dead honest when she had told my six-year-old little self her true feelings about me and it destroyed every single bit of confidence and self-worth I had in me. As time passed, many people tried to bully or intimidate me to 'get over it' but how can you get over such hurtful words if your mother just dumped all that hatred on you on Christmas when you are only six years old? As easy and logical it is for me to hate her, I can't. Just like my unrequited crush on Joshua, I couldn't hate my mother for a reason that is not there.

As for my father, he loathes me even more than my mother if possible. Can you try to imagine that? Well I don't had to. My father is disgusted I had a vagina instead of a penis and since my birth, he had done nothing but ignore me. Harmful words may hurt me but neglect is worse than silent ignorance.

All I ever wanted in my life is for my parents to love me. It's my lifelong dream and biggest hope that one day; they might actually accept me and care for their only child. I supposed I should be thankful they hadn't dumped me at some orphanage and left me there to rot. I do know that my dad's multi-billion dollar fortune won't ever be passed down to me nor will I be mentioned in any wills of theirs. I used to cry myself to sleep every night asking the question why until sleep claimed me. Now I just lie in bed for hours, staring at my glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, keeping the tears at bay.

Crying never got me anywhere. Crying only gave me a terribly flushed face, a stuffy nose, a pounding headache and puffy bloated eyes. I was known as the crybaby of all time in elementary. What can I say? I'm not fragile or delicate. I'm already broken by my parents before I learnt my times tables so don't expect anything from me. Ridicule me, pity me, point and laugh at me or do whatever you want, I'm Emily Leona Coleman after all.

The most worthless and unwanted soul for many thousands of miles radius around, seeking a cure to unrequited love before suicide actually starts temping me.

This story is currently undergoing a re-write so I apologize in advance, yes, the chapters will be shorter because I get confused I write long chapters (don't ask me why, I just do). Constructive criticism will be highly appreciated. I'm trying to write a story that won't be cliché even though it seems like one at first glance and that'll take time to break the boundaries to define a cliché so please be paitent and just bear with me.