You didn’t care. About many things, everyone in McKinley High knew that by now. Ashley and Ashlyn always think they’re in a competition with you, ahem, ‘Who’s the prettiest?’ But really, it’s just a one sided debate at this point. Erin is downright head over heels about your situation in this hellhole, you pay no attention to positive or negative aspects. You refrain from talking to anyone, and you waste your time on nothing, but knowledge. Julie wonders, constantly, about who you are, I don’t think she even knows your name. Neither does Wendy, or Kevin, or Jason, or Carrie Erin or Ian.

No one knew you, yet, no one dared to speak to you, god knows why. (And no, you’re not a visionary).

Judging from your poor appearance, you were into grunge, and all that shit. Every day, you showed up to school, septum ring crooked, brushed out curls that made you look like a female version of James Hetfield, messy, uneven layers and outgrown, frizzy bangs so thick not one person can tell what your eye colour is. There is one thing some people knew, you sound like every coked-up rockstar there ever was, and they admired it.

What you knew, though, is that you wanted to perform a few songs in the auditorium for prom, you’d sing vile… utterly disturbing songs, and you’d see the look of hatred in everyone’s faces towards you, and you’d feel proud, you were sure no one would ever talk to you again after this. So at lunch you went to the ‘student counsel advisor’ (I’m not American leave me alone) and firmly requested that you sing at prom, firmly. They were scared to shut you down, so they obliged.

”Alright! Alright! You can sing at prom! Jeez…”

A few weeks later, it was, evidently, prom, and everyone was in the audience, while you, and your band mates were in the stage, preparing equipment. Some dude, called Eddie, was sat behind the drum kit, a teenager named Samuel was tuning his bass, and you were stood behind the microphone, tuning your electric guitar and your cousin, Kirk, was turning his rhythm guitar. Your idea of formal attire… intrigued… others, at best. All it was was a ripped tank top over your bra, and you wore your… sweat pants. Sweatpants, to prom. Like I said before, you didn’t care.

Sooner or later, the lights dimmed and a spotlight casted on your bare arms and bounced off your guitar. You cleared your throat, the action not doing anything but making your voice raspier.

You: “This, is not a song that was put into careful consideration. I couldn’t care less about what happens, I don’t care if a teacher runs on the stage to stop me. I’m gonna sing whatever song I like, I may even end up singing the same song twice. But who gives a shit?”

You strum your guitar, some metal heads in the audience recognising the song to be ‘Lithium.’ By your favourite band, Nirvana.

Your voice was horrific, every voice crack built character, though. Every croak sent some people in the audience mad, how can a 16 year old sound like that?

Sooner or later, you arrived at the third sing, and maybe the final, ‘About a girl’, again, by Nirvana. There was something different about this one, though, your voice still had a subtle crack, but it was smoother, of course, it got raspier when you raised your voice, but besides that fact, you didn’t actually sound that bad. It was the guitar solo that got some people stimming. It was a basic solo, but you carried it out carelessly, and a certain someone paid a little too much attention to it, though. Ian.