Why am I like this?

I don't know.

Maybe it's because I'm angry.

Why am I here?

Because this is what 'she' always wanted to do when she was young.

Who exactly is she?

She's my pa's wife, and I don't like her much. Most people call her Dina.

Why do I do any of this?

To make him proud. I'm his cutie, his little angel, and he's the only one I can trust in this fucked up world. I'd do anything for him, anything to make him better, just like he'd do anything for me.

I try to smile when I enter the dressing room. You know the bullshit saying: it takes so and so muscles to frown and only one to smile? I don't believe it. But perhaps depression has something to do with the difficulty it takes for me to smile. I do my best and I wonder when I'll catch a break from all this hell.

Who is 'he'?

I'm referring of course, to the only person I care about except for myself. I'm selfish. I figured if I don't care about me, no one else will.

My old man worked for Guinea's since he was fifteen, despite the fact that he was one hundred percent Irish. He'd beat up and occasionally kill people for money. Some of the killings were actually by accident. He was my hero since early childhood. I wanted to have his intelligence, his strenght, and his courage. Tony told me that I would never want that. He said to just be a good girl and do the opposite of everything he does. I have a feeling that even if I wished to take that path, I would still end up winding down the same road my father did.

The room is cold and I can assume that every one of these bitches nipples are hard, just like my own.

Everything is too girly in here. The dressing place is spacious yet all the perfume seems to cloud around my head. Sweet Pea, Vanilla, Pink, Lavender, Jasmine; it smells like fucking European prostitutes. This is America, you idiotic whores, so why don't you adopt some of your own culture instead of trying to mock others? The fake British accent is hardly fooling anyone. Not me.

I take a seat on a soft, rose colored stool. I admit, it is comfortable but if only the stool had a back for when I fall over due to my pulsing migraine. In front of me is a mirror. I guess this is some sort of treat to the other girls whose only activities are looking at their reflections, spreading gossip about their girlfriends, and having front and back door sex with as many jocks as possible. Their missing out on everything that hasn't been unveiled to them but their too brain damaged to know or give a rat's ass about anything outside their shallow pools.

Light bulbs are attached all around the frames of the mirrors. Oh, how so Hollywood of them.

They actually took a survey of everyone in this pagent. Out of fifty one contestants, fifty chose actresses, models, singers, or nurses when queried about their dream professions. When I was asked I replied that I wanted to be a genius.

A variety of make up was stacked on the table for my use. Different brands of press on nails, hair dyes, eyeshadows, eyeliners, mascaras, cover ups, lipsticks, lip glosses, and lip liners were all organized in their separate categories. I'm suprised I even remember all those and the only make up companies I'm familiar with are NYC and Cover Girl. I haven't been doing this long and if I hadn't hated everyone else in these pageants I would have felt sorry for them.

I study the trend followers all around me. There's a few bleached blondes, their hair unnaturally white. Jeeze, save the white locks for old age. I'm currently the only one in the room with natural blonde hair. It also has a tint of strawberry to it. The rest of the blondes have dyed their hair brown. What the fuck? Why take pretty golden curls and turn them into dark worms?

"Rebecca, oh my God! Is that really you?"

Rage boils inside me. I feel as if my veins are about to pop.

I open my eyelids wider, showing off my green, black, and white eyeballs in false suprise.

"Yea, it's me," I replied with fake glee.

I point my index finger playfully at the skank who addressed me.

"Kayla Ann?" I said, my voice mocking a tone of inquiry.

Her oily lips curve upward into a sneaky smile as she extends her orange hand with fake, long fingernails to me. I shake her hand, more roughly and masculine than she would have liked. She greets all the others with hugs and less of the population with kisses on the cheek. I'm glad she approached me with a different method.

"So how have you been, girl?" Kayla Ann asked.

"Oh, just fine. Great actually," I replied.

"I'm doing fantastic as well. Oh my God, it's been forever since I last saw you. How are things at your new school?" she inquired.

"Good," I give her short, simple answers.

"Well, the best of luck at second place to you. I hope nobody notices that tit thing," she commented.

"Well, for your sake, I hope none of the judges get a look at that black as night boyfriend of yours," I responded smugly.

She gives me daggers and is about to insult me back, when a friend of her's signals her to join one of the many groups of girls. She turns on her five inch tall heels, nearly twisting her ankle. To my dismay, she keeps on walking.

Now I wonder what she meant by the tit thing. I take a look at my own chest and see my nipples erect through my white dress. Oh. This dress isn't padded and it has thin spaghetti straps. I didn't want the whole audience seeing my colorful bra straps. It would just look plain clownish. Beside from that, a majority of the judges are male so this situation should be to my advantage.

Am I prejustice against blacks?

Nah. I hate every race of humans equally. Kayla Ann is just a white trash slut with no standards.

How much do I hate her?

Though she's clearly not worth my energy, I dislike Kayla Ann as much as snow, pop music, and New York.

She's partially the reason why I got expelled from Brunswick High School last year. Her hatred for me obviously began before I even noticed she was alive. My assumption is that she's jealous of me. I can't think of another reason why she would begin to send strings of verbal assaults my way. Other than that, she would use my purse to dispose of her gum wrappers in the locker room. In return, I rummaged through her designer bag, emptied her perfume bottle, pissed in the bottle and sprayed her gym locker and all her belongings on the bench with a new line of body spray. I went into the gymnasium as usual and supressed my grin whenever I felt someone's eyes on me. From what I heard, miss popular didn't even smell anything foul until the class after. The case of Kayla Ann smelling like a Port-a-John was left a mystery that was still talked about throughout the student body to this day. I kept in touch with my friend who didn't get kicked out of school. She would keep me up to date on the pointless gossip and stupid crap which roamed the halls that every teenage girl seemed to worship like a bible, except for me. Though most of the gossip was boring, I couldn't help but giggle hysterically at that one line.

In January of '96, I was expelled from Brunswick High and placed into Glynn Academy. I wouldn't say that I got into a physical fight with Kayla Ann that morning, but the opportunity presented itself to me when I discovered we were alone in the locker room. No preppy hussies were around to back her up or protect her. Whenever she passed me alone in Junior hall, she never had any asshole remarks to make.

The bitch was taking a shower in one of the eight shower stalls provided. I took notice of the steam that floated up to the ceiling and disapeared into the vent above. I pushed the curtain aside and she jumped, immediately covering herself.

"What are you doing, weirdo," she demanded.

When I didn't answer, she huffed in annoyance and gripped the edge of the shower curtain, about to shield herself from me, again. Before she was able to, I stepped inside the shower with her.

"Get away from me you crazy dyke," she said.

I got behind her and slammed the front of her body into the tile. I must have broken her nose or busted her face open because I saw a stream of blood travel down the drain. She wiggled her limbs to try to hit or kick me but it had to be difficult since she could temporarily only use them behind her back. There were red bite marks all over her surface. Fucking tramp even had a hickey on her ass cheek. She moaned in pain against the tile. I slamed her head against it, harder than I intended to, but still not with enough force to kill her. It wasn't what I planned to do, not that day at least. When she weakened, I pushed back her medium lenght, disgusting brown mop and I grabbed hold of the silver chain that clung tightly to her neck. Why the cheerleader type scum was wearing a silver chain around her neck was beyond me. Perhaps her and her boo were playing role reversal. Anyway, I didn't care about her reason, it was just convenient for me. My fingers of one hand tangled in her locks and connected her head tighter against the wall, while my other hand pulled the chain back and chocked her.

I kept that act up for about a minute until I felt myself lifting all her weight. She was out but she had a pulse. The rings of her chain were imprinted on her neck. I adjusted her necklace to cover up the pink marks and left her naked body curled up on the shower floor with the water on. I placed the slippery bar of peach soap next to her. A bloody tooth fell out of her open mouth.

With my hair only slightly damp, I went over to the bench and put on my clothes. After all, if I was spotted leaving school in wet clothes it would have been a dead give away. I put the bar of soap on the shower floor to make it look as if Kayla Ann slipped and hit her head. As for the neck marks, she might have worn her jewelry too tight. That wasn't even a lie. Something on her had to be tight. The word around school was that she had holes the size of Russia. I didn't check when I had the chance, nor did I have the urge to.

I ditched the rest of the day and walked home early, mentioning none of the day's events to Dina. My dad wasn't home. He worked in South Carolina five days a week with his buddy, Philip. I stayed home the next day, too anxious to go to school. As for Dina, she didn't have a right to tell me what to do. All she really did all day was eat and smoke weed. I went to school the day after and my name was called over the loud speakers to report to the principal's office at the beginning of first period. There was Kayla Ann in a chair opposite of the midget principal. She didn't have her fucking dog chain on which turns out, her boyfriend did give it to her. She's his mut but what mattered was that she narked on me. It got to take a lot of courage to squeal on people.

When questioned, I lied. I denied every claim that was put against me. My locker and my purse got involuntarily searched. Two bottles of alcohol were found in my purse. I was kicked out of school and got a fine of two hundred bucks.

Getting back to present day, the girls are changing into their gowns, most of them with tiny tits, noticeable ribs, and bald pussies.

Kayla Ann bends over, a hot pink string riding up her ass crack. The thick hairs of her bush stick out from the edges of her thong. That color looks so fucking stupid on her tan skin but pale breasts. She has a lacky zip up her dress from her backside to the back of her neck.

The first round of the pageant will be formal wear. The second will be the talent portion. The final round will be the swimsuit comeptition. I intend on going up on that stage looking as natural as possible. I curl my blonde hair with the curling iron, put on a dangly pair of silver earrings, and apply a hint of mascara. The rest of the tubes and jars of make up on my table were left unused. I'm sure some of the girls and their mothers will lift them before today is over.

A few feet to my right, a bleached blonde with long frizzy rings is applying blush. Then she straps on her heels and exits the dressing room, walking up the stairs which leads to the stage. Applauses and whistles echo. A cheery voice speaks into a microphone as the girl prances down the catwalk and answers a cheesy question she's asked.

One hour later I'm going insane. This is worse than going shoe shopping.

I'm asked my own cheesy question.

"What do you think society's biggest concern is?"

He pulls at one end of his yellow bow tie.

"Comformism. People are following the crowd too often. Just imagine a world without individuals such as Lenoardo Da Vinci, Kurt Cobain, and even Jesus. We would be in a silent, artless enviorment," I answered.

I didn't say what was written on my flash card with black marker. Dina wrote it out for me. I was supposed to say something about world hunger but my guess is that a majority of the contestants are suffering from hunger. People clapped just as loud as they did for the girl before me, despite my answer being unrehearsed and strange to them. I see Dina frown in the fifth row. My dad clamps and smiles. For the first time tonight, I smile for real and step out of the spotlight. My dad is here! He is the type of man that would never let his illness stop him from doing something he wanted. I exit the opposite side of the stage and go out a different door. I have to walk down a hallway to get back to the dressing room but I'm really in no hurry to return there.

A girl reaches out to put a dollar in the vending machine. A mother slaps her hand away and leads her back inside the room. The girl pouts in her magician costume.

For the talent portion I shoot my gun at a wooden target, hitting a bullseye. Needless to say, the audience was startled, and so was the last contestant of round two, Kayla Ann. What can I say? I was good at shooting things. I suck at singing and dancing. I take a break and talk to my pops until round three begins. I finally retreat to the dressing room when that stench of body odor and hairspray fill my nostrils. A loud, obnoxious voice is talking, more like shouting.

"I can't believe her. She thinks she's so cool. She's a fucking butch loser! My routine was so much better," Kayla Ann complains.

The rest of the sheep nod and laugh as the heavy door shuts behind me. I get stares, grins, and giggles. Obviously that big mouth was going on about me. I'm the only one who had a 'butch' routine. Kayla Ann sang something by Madonna. Oh, I can see how her routine was so much better, and much more original. I ignore them for now.

They say ignorance is bliss.

I strip from my nineteenth century western dress and hook on my bikini.

That asshole. She's too stupid to have learned anything from the last time.

Another contestant from Kayla Ann's group of friends barges in a bathroom stall clutching her stomach.

The rest of the group chuckles and changes the subject from me to the other girl, but Kayla Ann still glances at me and laughs.

I wait for my turn, go out in my swimsuit and come back quickly. The only contestant that didn't get to strut around in her bikini tonight was Kayla Ann. Kayla Ann and me all alone again. Something tells me that if I handle things like I did last time I would get the same results: trouble for me and the same whimpering, untrained dog.

She's in her bathing suit, fake boobs hanging out of her floral top. Maybe I can get a needle and pop them like balloons. Perhaps if I had a hammer I would smash her melons open. I have a pocket knife in my purse. I could always cut them off and put one in her mouth to gag her. Then what would I do with the other one?

What should I do to her?

For minutes she doesn't even notice I'm here.

"Hey, I gotta ask you something." I came up silently behind her and she's startled. I swear I saw her heart hop, beads of sweat dripping down from her hair line. Still, she looks up at me from the bench and scoots away from me slowly, trying not to let me notice her move.

"What do you want?" she snapped, emphasizing the word you.

"I want to know why you don't like me. Am I some kind of competition to you?" I questioned.

Kayla Ann snorts. Who knew a barbie could snort!

"Hardly. Why do you care, lesbo?"

Her eyes scan away from me. She's looking for her friends, hoping they were back. She's hoping for anyone else to get in the middle of this and save her slutty ass. She would probably even be grateful if the janitor barged in to clean the shitter.

"Still thinking words can be used against me as bullets, I see. You know, that hurts my feelings. I think I'm going to cry. Do you want to cry with me?" Despite my reply, I'm doing just the opposite. I'm smiling. I'm happy. I'm nervous. I'm excited.

Maybe I'm a little scared.

"No." She changes her tone.

"I still didn't get an answer," I pointed out.

She gives me a mean look and stands up.

"I'll tell you why I don't like you," I said.

"You're weird and you're phychotic. You barely say anything. I'm not the only one that don't like you. Go ask anyone else." She thinks she's finished and she prepares to leave.

I guard the door, blocking her from exiting. I also turn the lock.

"My turn. I don't like you because you're a moron, you're shallow, and you must be fucking retarded if you're not kissing my shoes and begging me to let you out. You're weak, you're needy, and you and everyone similar to you make me ashamed to be female. This pageant is a joke. I feel like I'm somebody's science fair project. To sum it up, you could never be a Leonardo Da Vinci, Kurt Cobain, or Jesus."

"I don't want to be!" Kayla Ann shoves me but her strenght is not enough to get me away from the door.

"Remember this?" I sling my arm around her throat, catching her in a headlock.

She tried to kick free. Her fingernails scratch me. It's annoying but I can't let her get away this time. I can't give her the opportunity to talk again. I grab her by the hair and yank her head back. I kick her feet out from under her, and her ass hits the ground. I slam her head down and open her mouth so wide she can't shut it. I grab her front teeth and pull.

"False teeth, huh? What are you, an old lady?" I smirked.

"Who did that to you, Kayla Ann? Who did that to you, girl?" I talk in a baby voice.

She whines and struggles. My knuckles wack her straight in the face. I break her nose because I don't want her teeth marks imprinted on my hand. I pin her down. I sit on her arms and stomach. I feel her ribs underneath my ass. Disgusting. Maybe I should give her my hunger speech.

"What should I do?" I queried.

"Let me go." Kayla Ann chokes.

"Why should I? You're spoiled enough as it is. What makes you think you deserve to be let go?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca."

"What was that?" I put a hand around my ear.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, still struggling.

"For what?" I asked.

"For making fun of you. I am jealous," she replied.

"I always knew it," I said joyfully.

She grins. She would always be stubborn. She thrusts her head up and kicks her legs some more. She tries to bite me but I'm too far from her reach. I slam my arm over her legs and she howls in agony.

"Remember I said something about words being bullets?" I inquired.

She puts her head back down, refusing to nod.

"Then guess what, girlfriend?" I form the shape of a gun with my hand, driving my index finger to the side of her head.

"Bang!"

"I could always use my gun. It is stolen after all. But that doesn't seem fun. I don't want to waste a bullet on a mixer like you. Then what do I do? Do I stab you? I most certainly don't want to use my beautiful present on a dirty cunt." I raise my voice at dirty cunt.

She screams. I knew it had to happen soon. I block her mouth before she gets past the H in help. I squeeze her jaw.

I finally get another idea as the slits of my eyes travel to the bathroom stalls.

I slam her cranium on the floor again and she gets dizzy. She doesn't fight as I drag her by the neck into the middle stall. I gag at the smell. The toilet bowl is filled with the runs. Gross. It was that girl who's been clutching her stomach. Kayla Ann, still awake, is knelt down next to the can. I grab her head and stick it in the dark brown water. Her screams bubble up to the surface. I hear a gag. She must have vomited in her shit grave. I hold her head under for close to three minutes until she's dead. I killed someone.

I give Kayla Ann my final words.

"Eat shit and die."

I go out of the stall and wash my hands in scalding hot water. I go to a random table and pick up a tube of concealer, spreading it over my arms, disguising the scratch marks. I get my little belongings, exit the dressing room, and go into the audience.

"Pa, we have to go," I said quietly.

"It's almost over, cutie. You might even win," dad replied.

I whisper in his ear what I had done.

"Alright, let's go." He stands up, brushing off his suit.

"What's going on, are you sick?" Dina asked.

"Very," I replied.

The three of us leave.

Forty nine out of fifty one contestants are standing anxiously on the stage, awaiting the results.

The man with the yellow bow tie opens an envelope and reads the results.

"Runner up for the Miss Teen Georgia Beauty Pageant is... Amber Mecca!"

The voices become fainter.

I don't even have to look to know that Amber is crying and holding a bouquet of roses.

"And now, for the grand winner, receiving a two thousand dollar check and her face on a billboard... Kayla Ann Newton!"

There's clamps, then looks of confusion.

The doors open and we're exposed to the night air.

From the backseat of our Dodge Ram, I see my dad cry.

"What did you do?" Dina demanded. She turns to face me.

Am I a serial killer?

No. Serial killers are those who kill the innocent. I was nearly cleansing the Earth.

Do I regret it?

I'm not sure.

Will I get caught?

If I truly take after my old man, than I shouldn't.

Where are we going?

I can't tell.

My piece of my advice would be to keep your mouth shut.

Why am I like this?

I wanted to be original.