February 13th, 2010. It's cold today, cold and raining. The rain roars against the cafeteria roof, drowning out even the din of the people around me. I look at them, faces painted into fake smiles. Their voices grate at my mind, I sneer, they are all so fake, so plastic, and so stupid. I look across the cafeteria at a crowded table full of make-up covered fake girls and muscled, polo wearing fake boys. One boy stood out to me, his fakeness glaring. His brown hair was neatly cut and his brown eyes held fake warmth as he stared dreamily at the girl beside him. Or maybe it wasn't a dreamy-eyed stare; maybe that was just his drug induced glaze. I knew he was on things, hell, pot, meth, booze, ecstasy, you name it he did it. I don't know how he passed the random drug tests of the football team.

Sitting beside him was the perfect girl. Her perfect lips stuck in a fake smile that didn't belong on her perfect face. Her dangerously low cut shirt and designer jeans were fakely perfect with not a stain or wrinkle to speak of. The fake boy's letterman jacket hung on her perfect shoulders. She looked away from one of her numerous fake friends and for a moment her eyes met mine. The fake look fell of her face and she sneered at me, the expression was perfect and not fake at all, it was completely genuine. It only lasted a moment, then she turned back to her friend the fake look returning to her features. She turned to the fake boy and smiled, whispering something in his ear that made him shudder. Somehow I doubt that shudder was from revulsion.

Disgust welled inside me before I crushed it, destroyed it and buried it with all other feelings. I used to be like them, used to be fake. I watched her perfect lips form words remembering how cold the words could be. "You're so stupid. You think I ever actually loved you? You think I cared about you? You were nothing but a toy."

My grey eyes flicked away from her, to the window where I watched the rain pour down. I was no longer fake, but I wasn't perfect either. I was nothing, I was pain, I was fear, I was real.

When I get home today I walk past my fake parents where they sit in front of the TV not even noticing my arrival. I pause in the hallway to study a picture of the fake-me. My face is fixed in a fake smile, my red hair cropped short to match all of the other fake people. I'm wearing a football jersey and standing beside me is the fake-boy. He looks exactly the same minus the drug induced stupor. My best fake friend.

In another picture fake me is in a tux with the perfect girl on my arm. The fake me didn't deserve the perfect girl, Amanda. Did nothing me deserve her, did real me deserve her? I don't know. I blink, looking away from the pictures of fake me and continuing on, into my room.

I look in the mirror at real-me. My hair is growing out; my face is slack and blank of expression. My grey eyes are empty, but they are no longer full of fake emotion. I have on a grey T-shirt and blue jeans, my shoes aren't designer brand, because designer brands are for the fake people.

I walk over to my closet and open the door, inside is a cooler. I open it and take out a few bottles of beer. Not for me of course, no I'm not stupid. I don't get drunk or high, I don't need any adrenaline rush or hallucinogen to feel alive. Because I was real, I don't need those things.

I open one bottle very carefully, making sure not to dent or bend the top. From under my bed I pulled another bottle, this one didn't hold anything as tame as alcohol. Liquid cyanide.

I pour out half of the beer and replaced it with the almond scented liquid. The scent of the beer covers it up. I carefully replace the cap; it looks like it has never been touched except for a slight tear in the label as if it scraped something when I picked it up. Then I put the bottles of beer in a bag and walk out of the house.

My parents don't even notice. I open my car door and slam it, thinking maybe one of them will look up from the TV and come ask me, "Where are you going son? Why did you quit the team? Why don't your friends come over any more? Why don't you go to anymore parties?" But they don't. Of course they don't, why would they? They are too fake to notice anything but the lie they try to live.

I start the car and drive away; the roads I take haven't seen my car in a long time, about a year. But I still easily remember how to get there. I check the bag in my back seat, six beers. Good that will be enough. I drive through our little cul-de-sac neighborhood until I find the house I'm looking for. It's big, probably expensive, but the family here can afford it. I put my car in park and walk up the sidewalk to knock on the big white door. I have to keep myself from gagging as I look around the block; this whole neighborhood is just so cookie-cutter and fake.

When the door opens fake-boy is standing in the doorway, his face looks confused as he takes in who is standing on his doorstep. I smile a fake smile and use my fake voice, "Hey, you want to take a ride around? Talk, hang out like we used to?"

He looks dumbfounded for a moment more before a stupid grin spreads across his fake face. "Yeah man, I knew you would get back to normal eventually." He walks out the door and shuts it behind him. I hold the fake smile on my face, even though it disgusts me to do so.

We walk together back to my car and he hops in the passenger seat and immediately starts drumming on the dashboard with his hands. I remember he used to do that, a long time ago. I had forgotten how obnoxious it was. Or maybe fake-me just hadn't minded.

I pull out of the cul-de-sac and drive off keeping my destination in mind. "So you got anything on you man? I mean I had a shot before my parents got home, but… "

I don't let myself sneer at his pathetic statement. He was weak, if you get addicted to something it owns you, and he was addicted to everything. I kept the disgust from my face but he must have seen something in my eyes because he leans away. "Hey, Adrian, you okay?"

I force the fake smile back on, like putting on an uncomfortable outfit that didn't fit right or look good. "Yeah, I'm fine, just had a bad day. I've got some beers in the back." I motion towards the backseat.

Fake boy nodded looking relieved. "Cool man, so uh, where are we going?" He glances around and out the window. He seems twitchy, nervous. I allow myself a real smile at his anxieties.

"I was just going to drive out to the lake where we used to party all the time back in the day," I say casually leaning back. "But if there is somewhere you had in mind…"

Relief floods him again and his smile seems less strained. "No man, the lake is cool, the lake is awesome." He leans back still smiling stupidly. "Dude I'm glad you came by it's been forever since we hung out. I was starting to think you hated me or something." He drums his hands on the dashboard some more.

I stop myself from grimacing in annoyance. "Now why would I hate you?" The question hangs unanswered between us and fake boy looks out the window to avoid looking at me. I pull onto a dirt road that leads out to the middle of nowhere.

About a mile down the road I stop at the lake. I pull the beers out of the back and hand one to him and pull one out for myself, making sure the labels are intact. He takes one and pulls the cap off. "So uh why take me out here dude?" he asks, still not looking at me.

I shrug, "I just wanted to kind of apologize for the way I've been acting. I realized I was being immature and this was the best way I could think of to apologize." I say, running my hands on the wheel.

Fake boy smiles and puts his feet up on the dash. I want to tell him to get his fake designer shoes off of my dashboard but I don't. "Sweet man, I really missed hanging out with you." He takes a long swig of his beer. He drinks in silence for awhile then he starts talking, telling me all of these stories of him and his fake friends.

I pretend to listen, nodding when I need to and handing him a fresh beer when he finishes off the previous bottle. Soon his speech gets slurred and he's laughing at everything he says. Then he gets really serious and looks at me. "Dude, I'm sorry about Amanda, I mean, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just fell in love."

I nod and think back to that day. Fake-me was dating Amanda, she was perfect, beautiful, and I was in love with her. It was Valentine's Day so I called her to see if she wanted to do anything. She told me she wished she could but that she was busy. I decided to surprise her. I went over to her house. Her parents weren't home, so I let myself in and walked into her room. When I opened the door I couldn't believe what I saw for a minute. There was Amanda, my perfect girl, cheating on me, on Valentine's Day. She turned when she heard the door open. She pulled away from the guy she was screwing and stepped off of the bed. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me. She stood up not even bothering to hide her perfect body. "What the hell are you doing here?" Her voice was full of venom.

I couldn't say anything; I was frozen, and confused. She sneered at me, "What, are you upset? You're so stupid. You think I ever actually loved you? You think I cared about you? You were nothing but a toy. You don't know what love is, you're so fake." She looked at me for a minute longer and then started screaming for me to get out. Right before I left I looked at the guy who she had been in bed with. Lying there with a guilty look on his face was my best friend.

I look at fake boy sitting beside me; the beer bottle in his hand is empty. I blink and reach into the bag, there is only one bottle left. I pull it out and offer it to him.

"I shouldn't drink anymore," he slurs, leaning back in the seat.

"Come on man," I smile, "just one more?"

He looks from my face to the bottle and reaches for it shakily. He takes it in his hand, some of the drink spills over the top. He tilts it back and takes a swig. I watch as he swallows then pulls the bottle away from his lips. A confused look comes over his fake face. "Adrian, it's really cold." With that he slumped into the seat, the bottle falling from his hands and spilling on the carpet.

I start the car and drive closer to the lake. I get out and open the door, dragging fake boy's body out of my car. I drag him onto the pier and toss the dead body into the lake. I watch as he sinks out of sight with a real smile on my real face.

I drive home with the radio on I tossed the bag of empty beer bottles in the lake after the body. When I get home I climb into bed. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I can't wait to give Amanda her perfect present.

February 14th, 2010. It's warmer today. School is over and I check my watch, 4:28. I hadn't worn a watch in a long time, but today I had to keep up with the time. I had slipped a letter into the perfect girl's bag. It said when and where to meet me, but it didn't say who wrote it. She would know though, and she would come, I knew she would.

I look around the room I'm in; it's an old supply closet. We have been in here after school before, a long time ago. Back then we would come here almost every week. Then I would explore her perfect body and I would make her scream. I wondered if I could make her scream again.

The door opens and in strides the perfect girl, rage contorting her features into a fake expression. She looks at me and frowns. "I knew it would be you waiting for me in here. God you're so pathetic Adrian. You think I don't notice you staring at me all the time?" I walk around her as she talks, she is so angry she doesn't notice me lock the door.

I walk over to her, her perfect blonde hair is in a ponytail, the loose curls dangling around her shoulders. Her perfect icy blue eyes stare at me angrily. I shove her against the wall, wrinkling her annoyingly neat clothes. I hold her against the wall, staring at her. She has stopped talking; she just stares at me, afraid. The fear in her eyes is so real, not perfect, but real. Then I realize that real is above perfect. That perfect is just as bad as fake. I smile at her, I will do her a favor; I will make her real. I slip the object from my pocket and hold it up so that it glints in the light.

She screams, the sound is not perfect; it is real and wonderful to my ears. I bring the knife down and carefully cut open the front of her shirt, slicing neatly through her bra and reveal the perfect skin. I want to make it real, real like me. I place the blade lightly on her chest and whisper in her ear, causing her to shudder in a completely different way than she had made fake boy shudder the day before. "You broke my heart babe, now it's your turn."

Her screaming continues as I trace the first line on her chest with the knife. Blood wells up from the path I carved into her skin. Her perfect skin looks so blemished by the blood, so real. I make another line curving to meet the first. The wounds are like art, so real and not perfect at all.

I paint a picture with her wounds, listening to her whimpers and protests. When I'm done I dip my hand into the beautiful red that spills out of her perfect chest and smear letters on the wall. When I'm done I lean down and smile, real smile, at her. "Now you're real," I say in a whisper. But she just looks up at me, her eyes dulling. She has been perfect for so long she can't even realize how much better she is now.

I back away from her and pull the second thing I brought out of my pocket. This will finish it all. This will show everyone what is real. It will wake up my parents; it will shake all of those fake people that blunder through their fake lives.

February 15th, 2010. When a janitor unlocked the supply closet the next day he found a macabre scene. The head cheerleader Amanda Vix lay dead on the floor, a broken heart was carved into her chest. The other body was not recognized as Adrian Blakes until the autopsy due to the fact his face was blown off by a shot to the head delivered by a short barreled shotgun that was found in the dead teenager's hand. Written across the wall in dried blood was Happy Valentine's Day. When interviewed about the incident one of the students replied, "You hear about these things happening on the news all of the time but you never think it could happen to you. This just makes you realize that stuff like this is real, it can happen to anyone."

A/n: This is a story I wrote for Valentine's Day. It's also a present for somebody I know that likes murder stories so I would love it if anybody wants to tell me how I could improve it or which parts to leave alone. Thanks for reading.