Painting The Bad Girl's Portrait

The alarm blares, a harsh start to the first day of senior year. Downstairs, your younger brother Tyler is already at the kitchen table, cereal box open. Your mother's hurried footsteps echo from upstairs, a familiar soundtrack to the chaotic mornings.

You rush to get Tyler ready for school, the mundane task a temporary distraction from the dread of the day ahead. As your mother appears, her usual detached demeanor stings, a reminder of the emotional distance between you. The casual dismissal of your outfit, a simple oversized shirt and cargo pants, reinforces her constant disapproval.

After they leave, the house is eerily quiet. The weight of the upcoming year settles in – senior year, the supposed highlight, feels more like a prison sentence. The dream of art school, your only beacon of hope, seems impossibly far, especially after a recent conversation with your mother shattered your fragile plans.

You check the clock. Shit. Late again. The bus is already gone. A familiar wave of frustration washes over you as you begin the long walk to school, the August heat oppressive, the thought of facing the crowded hallways and the ghosts of past hurts making each step heavier. What horrors does this new school year hold?