My name is Roxanne Alexandria Nadine. Well, it's not. I cannot risk having all my personal data up on Internet, so basically I changed all names and adresses, but everything else I say from now on is true.
Most of my friends call me Roxy. I don't have a real bunch of friends, but still I have some. Lily, for example: she's doing last year like I but we're in different classes. There's also Gerry, and Alice, and Mary, and my best male friend in the world, Jared. Also, I find nice some girls in my class: Siedah, Helen, Angie I and II and one very special girl called Kyla. Two nerds are also very nice: Vincent and Henry. And I almost forgot to mention my freakiest friend, wonderful she is: May.
So those are basically my friends. I have very few enemies, since I kinda managed to get all them out of my way, but there are a couple boys in my class I really can't stand. One neo-nazi called Arthur and his pal (fucking dwarf he is), Dave; also, a boy called Tony. And that is the short list of people that makes me sick, excluding, of course, anyone remotely related to my idol's suffering or death, and my own father.
Perhaps my story started when I was four and was first set off to school. I remember that day quite clearly: I was a cute little thing with two black, curly pigtails and missing one of my front teeth. Mum took a photo of me at the big entrance doors, as I joined a group of twenty four more kids of my age in the playground.
Unknowingly, I just entered hell.
As a child, I was terrified of only three things: spiders, dissappointing my Dad and pain. To vaccinate me, or extract me blood, one had to tie me down; something that happened often because I was a weak, sickly child.
The first time someone ever beat me I had just turned five. And when I say beat, I mean punch and kick the life out of me. And to my list of fears, the school was added.
I was the clumsiest child one could imagine, I fell down stairs alot; I also bumped into closed doors often. And lost my homework, and my schoolbooks, and tore my dresses. My only shelter were books; it was frequent to see me, diminute child, hidden behind a book almost bigger than me. Because I had learnt to read on my own, at a very early age. It was all I could do right. But still, that horrid boy and his friends chased after me, and I kept on "falling down stairs".
My mother was not dumb (not that much, anyway) and she finally understood what was going on. She went to speak to my teacher, and my teacher spoke with the boys.
I got two black eyes, a broken leg and two broken fingers from my left hand, to add to a plucked toenail, as a punishment for having told.
When I was nine to ten, my mum decided she'd had enough and made me move school.
Things got worse.
This time she had a clasp knife.
I almost got killed, but it solved nonetheless. It is a memory I'd rather not revive.
And I got into highschool.