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I was basically raised in a handcrafted prison of misery—also known as St. Petersburg, Florida. Sun-soaked suburbia masquerading as paradise. Unfortunately, I still rot here, tethered by a pact made with my parental units (ugh). If I stayed here for college they'd pay for my education. If I had a say in anything, I'd be somewhere colder, moodier, and generally more tolerable—but no, I’m stuck in this blindingly bright coastal purgatory until I can afford my escape.
The only silver lining in this sun-bleached nightmare is that Mother Dearest agreed to let me live on campus as long as I keep my grades passable. So now I’ve got a dorm room that’s all mine (thank god), even if I’m forced to share a bathroom and common area with four other girls. Whatever. We’ve formed a fragile peace treaty based on mutual disinterest.
My room? Sanctuary. It’s drowned in deep shadows, black sheets, an army of posters, and stacks of books no one else cares to understand. My blackout curtains are always drawn, guarding my little abyss from the obnoxious Florida sunshine—though I occasionally crack the window to smoke and overanalyze the lives of people outside who seem irritatingly okay.
In summary: I loathe it here. Every day feels like a sunburn on my soul.
My so-called income mostly comes from the people legally obligated to care about me—aka my parents. I tried to be a “functioning member of society” once. Got a job slinging overpriced caffeine at some soulless coffee chain and briefly endured the fluorescent despair of a convenience store. Both were actual hell. No one there understood me. I was just a ghost in eyeliner, scanning Funyuns for people who’d never read a book without pictures.
Thankfully, my dad throws enough corporate blood money my way to keep me alive—something about a soul-crushing office job and “doing what you have to do.” Whatever. If the system’s going to exploit him, might as well let it fund my misery.
When I need a little extra to fuel my caffeine addiction or buy more black eyeliner, I tutor some of the academically doomed. I may look like I cry in cemeteries (because I do), but I’m actually disgustingly smart. It’s a burden.
I’ve always known I was meant for something more. Something bigger. Darker. Louder. Even when I was a kid, I didn’t fit into the mold everyone else seemed so eager to crawl into. I wasn’t built for beige suburbia or pastel friendships. I was too small, too sharp, too clever, too ambitious. Cocky? Sure. Intense? Definitely. But I’ve never been anything but unapologetically myself.
And still—no one else ever really saw it. No one got it. They just stared like I was an oddity to be filed away or fixed. Whatever.
Now I’ve got a real shot—an actual chance to claw my way into the story I’ve always known I belonged to. To become one of those heroines I used to read about under the covers at night while the world slept and I couldn’t. The messy kind. The kind with scars and blood on their boots. I’m not afraid to get wrecked along the way. I always get back up. But let’s be clear: I won’t become a monster. I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it. That’s not my path. I want to change my fate—not lose my soul trying.
