Life Of A Bitch

22

The entire fucking building is deserted. My throat is parched from all the ceaseless shouting. I don't even have my phone with me, it's in the green room.

I'm bathed in sweat now. The lights don't work here and neither do the ceiling fans— what the fuck is wrong with this building?

I told you, I told you, but as usual you ignored me.

Dear conscience, stop singing.

La la la, can't hear you.

I try to shut out the noise of my mind, which is an impossible task. Sighing, I look at my watch.

Ten minutes to curtain. Shit.

With renewed energy, I spring up and start banging on the door. "Hello! Please, can anyone open the door! Can anyone hear me? Please, open the door! Open the goddamn door!"

I bite my lip and drop on the floor like a sack of potatoes. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to frickin' happen! I was supposed to go on the stage, give a memorable and emotional speech to all my fans who voted for me and drown in applause. I was supposed to gasp and cover my mouth when Mei and Jordan announce my name as the Spring Queen Of River High. I was supposed to shed pretty tears while receiving the trophy.

This whole day was supposed to be an Academy Awards performance!

Despite the heat, my body shivers. It shivers in anger and indignation. And insult.

This wasn't good, Michelle Callaghan. This was below the belt.

I won't give her the satisfaction. I will get out of this room, get dressed, look glamorous and give the school an awesome speech. She'll be ashamed of her doings when I go up to the stage to receive my prize. But I'll forgive her— of course after destroying her last year of high school— because I'm the bigger person here.

Kicking a nearby stool in frustration, I yell, "Shit shit shit shit shit!" I carefully scan the walls for any unlocked windows. There are three windows; all locked. Damn it.

A faint music of the school anthem wafts into the room. Shit, the programme's started and I'm still in my jeans, sweating like an adulteress in a church.

The only way to get out of this room would be to break the glass of one of the windows and getting out would be an even harder task. I may be slim, but I'm not small. The idea of me getting out of one of the windows is picturing Satan shaking hands with God— impossible.

But you have to try.

Oh please, not now. I don't want to hear your trying-and-succeeding lectures now, conscience.

Who knows, you can get out.

I sigh and walk towards the nearest sewing table. There was the smooth black surface of the sewing machine and a pair heavy brass cloth scissors. I pick it up and look at the window to my right.

It's not like I have a choice.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Then clutching the scissors tightly, I ram it on the window. Nothing happens. I ram again. Still nothing.

I let out a loud growl and ram it the third time. A faint crack appears on the glass.

Time to go all psycho-killer with it.

I grit my teeth and bash the scissors against it. This time it works and a small hole appears in the middle of the glass. Only a few more hits and I'm free— probably.

When I hit the window the tenth time, the glass shatters and and falls down, some on my hair and some on my body.

"What the f— what's going on here?"