Her overpriced mascara stained both cheeks on her face, and her pretentious tears had been dampening the rag jammed into her mouth for over a half an hour. I place my hands at the back of her head, and pull the restraint tighter to secure it. The corners of her mouth are appearing to pink-en raw; A special hue of light-red that seems to pair well with the purple bruising beginning to show just under her left eye. I proudly had given that to her in the bathroom, just before dragging her unconscious body into the middle of the woods where we are now. Even homecoming queens cry I guess, but who would have thought in such a lame, pitiful way. The pretty girls always seemed so perfect in the school brochures, at least the ones my mother and I had sifted through in the guidance office over the summer. Well, she is not so perfect now is she. I kick a pile of dust and rubble onto her flawless dress and watch it begin to settle. As it falls onto her it starts to mix with her sweat-dampened skin to create a muddy film that covers her silky white complexion.

“I guess this is what happens when you bully the wrong bitch, isn’t it Tiffany?”

She mumbles her frantic responses through her cotton muzzle. I assume it’s an attempt to plead for her mercy, or apologize. Who knows? Her mouth is gagged. I chuckle in amusement, and refuse to give in to her fake apologies. As if she forgot she is not at home with her Mommie who gives into everything, she responds with a temper-tantrum, and gives it her best try at breaking herself from the “Girl-Scout” quality knots that I secured her to the chair with. I confidently knew she wasn’t breaking free. I could have hung her from the edge of a cliff with those knots, and they wouldn’t have slipped an inch. Come to think of it, I actually did that same thing the prior year with Amanda, the head cheerleader from my last school. In fact, I remember using those very knots. I nod to myself in recollection. My only issue with Amanda was my grip, and misjudging her weight. On the bright side, I heard she had a beautiful closed-casket ceremony the next week. I sent flowers the day before we moved.

I looked Tiffany over. Her puppy-dog eyes were bloodshot, and her hair had become matted with sweat at the edges. Even with all the damage I had inflicted, she still looked arguably hot in a bad-girl grungy kind of way. I, being the typical goth girl who was single-handedly trying to re-incarnate the 90’s with my solitary style, could appreciate such a hideous look. I bent over at the waste meeting her at eye level, and took a mouthful of my favorite flavor of lollipop, cherry with a chocolate center. I rolled it around playfully to taunt her, accompanying it with a smirk rising from the corners of my mouth, then pulled it out with a dramatic flair. My lips smacked together breaking the silence, and shattering what was left of her hope with a single “POP!”

“See you in hell!” I sneer playfully.

I kick my black boot into her chest, and push her backwards until she is staring at the ceiling. A near perfect balance. Tiffany starts weeping for her life. This is the most honest thing I have ever seen from her. I giggle at the notion that it’s too late to go back now.

“What a shame, Tiff. There is someone inside of there Afterall.” I emphasize “there” with a final nudge to let her fall to the ground, and turn away to pack up my things.

The crack of her skull against the cement sound different than I anticipated. It isn’t like the movies, but much softer, duller, and painfully worse. She screams in agony, and her eyes widen with fear or perhaps it is the shock from being concuss. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. Either way, it’s too needy for me, and her cries for help are disgusting. I have to get out of this place. I crumble the receipt and paper bag to the hardware store into a ball, and hastily stuff them into my pack. I zip it closed, then climb the dilapidated stairwell to exit the basement back into the woods. I never look back, except to slam the cellar door closed, and to secure it with a rusted lock and chain. Her cries for help are eventually swallowed by the forest, as I quickly put distance between us, then waltz back into my junior prom ready to commemorate the night. I think tonight I will ask Mason to slow dance. He is after all, single now.

i've been wishing all these years

that i could be the homecoming queen-

pretty, perfect,

angelic, affluent

i want to be everything that she is

but what if she doesn't?

what if she longs for the day

when she can finally be herself

stop hiding all her feelings

in her broken home where nobody cares

what if all she wants is some real friends?

people who understand her,

who would be proud of her when she's at her highest,

but also during her lows?

maybe she just wants to have lows.

wants to feel human,

like the weight of the world has been lifted off her shoulders.

like she can breathe,

take off her tight dresses and high heels

and just relax.

what of she wants all the pressure

of eyes constantly being on her

to go away?

maybe she wants to reject all those guys that like who she is on the surface,

and find someone to give her heart to.

maybe she wants love.

love from her parents,

who don't even love each other anymore.

love from her friends

instead of just being together for popularity reasons.

love from the world

because she's herself, not because she's the skinniest, or the prettiest.

but mostly,

love from herself.

maybe she just desperately wants to love herself,

instead of feeling fake,

used, idolized, wanted.

maybe she just wants to be.

to live, to feel, and be free.

and here i am, wanting the life she so desperately wants to get rid of, to escape.

but even though i don't know her,

i love her.

i love the fact she puts on a brave face

even when it hurts,

when she doesn't want to.

she is stronger than all of us.

I have this picture I drew when I was five. A stick-figure princess in a pink ballgown, a tiara heavy with diamonds, and blonde curls falling around her shoulders.

Now, it's no work of art. I mean, I was five.

But it was my dream.

Yes, I'll admit it.

I was that little girl who everyone secretly hates, who tells the teacher and her classmates and her parents and the stranger walking down the street that "I'M GOING TO BE A PRINCESS WHEN I GROW UP!!!"

Of course, a few years later I found that drawing and crumpled it up because I was a perfectionist little brat of an eight-year-old who was disgusted with how sloppy five-year-old me's drawings were.

The thing is...

Standing here in the spotlight, with the tiara on my head, I wasn't entirely wrong.

Okay, yes, I was entirely wrong, I'm obviously not a princess. But stick with me here.

Homecoming queen, right?

About as close to royalty as I could logically get.

Here I am, dancing with a beautiful boy, a crown on my head, a dress of the softest pink draped over my body, and to all the eyes focused on me, I look like the princess that I always claimed I would be.

And I have everything! I'm popular! Pretty! Happy!

Right?

I pull myself closer to my dance partner so that I can hide my teary eyes.

Yes, I feel like the stick-figure princess.

All pink, all royalty.

All crumpled up and despised.

First, too fat. Then too skinny. She needs glasses? Get her contact lenses, her face is too pretty to ruin.

Every word like a dagger into my side. A wrinkle in the drawing. Until I was so contorted that I didn't recognize myself.

I wonder what they would think if I let the mascara run down my face. If I told my mom that I hate cheerleading, told my friends that I had bought this dress from a thrift store because I couldn't afford it otherwise, screamed that I had a crush on the nerdy boy with braces that shone in moonlight, and burst it into tears because I wish I had stayed home with a book.

But newsflash: Homecoming queens don't cry. Princesses keep their heads up or the crown slips. And my mask is a safe, protective barrier between what I know and how horribly I could be hurt.

So I blink hard, plaster on a smile, and laugh as my throbbing feet twirl the night away.