Young Writers Society

Standing in front of the mirror and staring at the mascara-stained face that seemed to smirk back, Megan's head was spinning as thoughts shoved each other aside as if trying to fight their way to the front and be the most important. Megan showed no favouritism. Pulling her eyes away from the dusty mirror, she looked into the sink below her. The water reached about 3 inches and was completely still. The liquid was almost crystal clear, the only imperfections being small black wisps of dripping mascara and eye-liner. She looked at her left forearm to see her name, her Gothic name, Magena (meaning “the coming moon”), etched into it and remembered very clearly the day she picked the broken glass up and tore into her own flesh. With a glance onto her right forearm, she saw every single horizontal mark, each a memory and a release from what she feels inside. Some of the ugly scars were only two or three centimetres, others reaching vertically about 6 inches. The largest vertical slash was her latest, the one that hospitalized her for three weeks. Back to the mirror, her soft brown hair with electric purple tips carefully fell to cradle her olive skin. Her lips were a soft pink, her cheeks still rosy. But her eyes had changed. They looked tired, weakened and worn-out from years of distress and anger. Megan stood properly and collected her thoughts, pulling her black cardigan back over her porcelain shoulders and walked out of the bathroom. Her spiked boots pounded down the hallway as she thundered through her mansion towards her parents.

“Mum? Dad?” she called as she hopped down every second step in to the marble entrance.

“Dining room honey,” called her mum. Twisting to her left, Megan took a deep breath and drew open the dining room doors. Her parents weren't alone. Surrounding the table in each and every one of the 20 seats was a business manager.

“What's up?”

“Uh, can I talk to you and Dad once you're finished? Sorry for the interruption.” Megan was extremely polite for someone going through what she had. She pulled the rims of the sleeves until they were bunched into her tight fists and crossed her arm before nodding and leaving the dining room.

She floated across to the living area, a space designed for her by her father. Like almost every door in the house, she had to slide them open. The beige entrance slowly revealed a black cave, the walls plastered with posters of the Black Veil Brides, My Chemical Romance and the All-American Rejects. Spaces in the velvet walls had been carved out for Megan to cradle with a book or homework, and one wall was lined with shelves holding vintage records, new-age CD's and hundreds of DVD's. She flopped into one of her built-in pods and stared at the small print-outs of Andy Biersack, some were extremely bad photo-shops from her best friend of Megan and Andy, also referred to as “Mandy”. There were photos from birthdays, Christmases and random parties that Megan looked over as her head swirled, a similar feeling to when she got extremely drunk and ended up in a police cell due to smashing a window. She slowly traced outlines of her boyfriend's face when they had been to a Black Veil Brides gig. Thinking. Waiting.