“It was horrible,” the woman on the news said in a moaning, wailing voice as she took out a lurid pink handkerchief and dabbed at her soft brown eyes – bloodshot, with tears cascading from her lower eyelid. “Deep cuts all over her pale wrists, eyes staring into space but seeing nothing, a razor blade on the floor next to her arm with her own blood on it...” They showed a picture of the dead girl – Calla Ruiz – on the forty-inch television inside my bedroom, and I started to get the uncontrollable shivers. Shit, I thought, I’m going to have some nasty nightmares tonight. I simply couldn’t help but recoil from the television and switch it off from as far as I could get from on the bed. Normally Calla fucking got on my nerves, but even I had to feel a tiny bit revolted at her looks.
OK, Calla was naturally pale, but she looked a chalky white in the picture, and I don’t think that has anything to do with camera flash. Chocolate brown hair lay like a fan around her freckled face, looking even more ridiculous as it usually did in its usual dos. (She could never do her hair properly, and anyway it was kind of fun to tease her about having her hair in crap buns in PE and showing off the spots proudly underneath her thin fringe whenever she moved a muscle). Brown eyes – exactly the same shade as the woman’s eyes on the news – lay open and glassy, looking at everything and nothing at the same time. Looking into them must have been like looking into oblivion.
Did I care that I caused this? Of course not.
Apparently she killed herself because of me. Well, that’s ridiculous – she got on my nerves like hell with her annoying, kiss-ass personality, so it was time to make her life like hell at school. Worse than hell. At first I only teased her a little bit, but after receiving the news that I was an accident (when my famous parents got really drunk one night) I was really lacking attention. Better to have a bad reputation at school than being ignored, and I don’t regret my decision one bit. She has committed suicide, sure, but that’s just one less person to make my life miserable.
I tossed my platinum blonde hair at my friend’s boyfriend, who winked at me. “Cool kissing techniques, Helena, and you’re way hotter than your boring friend,” he said. Yes, I should have been annoyed and ashamed, but stop being a goody two shoes and listen: what would you have done with my looks? I’m pretty damn hot with bright blue eyes and blonde hair, with amazing features that everyone says are my mom’s. I take that as a compliment – she’s a fashion model, my mom, who married a drunken bastard (they’ve split up now, thank fuck) who did nothing but stare at her tits and ass and make jokes about them. Not exactly funny ones either – just lame cracks in front of his friends (also drunken bastards).
So what if I’m a little greedy? Who cares if I drove some weirdo to commit suicide? Nothing that happens can change me. Or so I thought.
