• ¬To whom it may concern:
    The following pages and statements were never meant to be read or showed to anyone other than the author. If by chance you do happen to read this, know that all that is here is to never be repeated or shared. It would be greatly appreciated if you would do the same. These are the uncensored thoughts and reasoning of a girl that could never really let anything out. Suppressed thoughts you could say. Things happened fast for her and she had no way of passing on what had happened to her.

    You may not know who this girl is, but you shouldn’t judge her by your standards. These pages are her release of stress and anger. She is known to change subjects quickly and often, she may loop back and start talking about things she wrote before. This girl is very passionate and intense, not to mention blunt and honest. She tends to think way too much about things, this is how she lets it out since nobody will listen when she needs them.

    I found this journal in the floorboards of an old closet in a house I frequently broke into to get away from the world. The paintings described in this book have long faded and the soul who brought them to life has since passed.
     
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    In case this is found. My name is Reign Isabella Peterson; I’m 18 and about to graduate. My mother is Christy Peterson. My father is John Peterson. Mom works all the time and dad and I don’t really talk all that much, all family relationships are strained and not in that great of shape. Sure on the outside we’ll put on a happy face, but look through it and see what we really are, seriously. Someone has to.
    I am not exactly sure what’s gone on in my life, but of one thing I’m sure. It all started when I moved to a small town and received an amulet from my old grandmother. It’s strange that it all started with a single stone from a single silver charm on a long silver chain.

    The events that lead to me moving are simple. I went into high school open to the new ideas and kids that would be there. I was immediately drawn to the rich cool kids. But soon enough they turned out to be just snot nose brats that just wanted another person to follow them around.
    Next I was drawn to the dark and weird kids. Most of them were artists and others were their friends that always popped pills and smoked just about everything under the sun.
    I was drawn to their leader you could say. His name was Jeremy, but everyone called him Jay. He talked to me in chemistry, when I was fuming over something that angered me during lunch. I don’t remember what it was but he was looking at me, I snapped at him asking him what the ******** he was looking at.
    He just sat there, didn’t move or anything. Just sighed and kept looking at me. I shrugged him off and just stared ahead of me at the blank white board. I was itching for a fight and I hoped that I’d get one.
    After school I was going to my car, he walked up next to me and started talking to me, so I talked back; we started a twisted relationship on that walk in the parking lot.
    Like every teenager, I was 16 at the time, when I had a boyfriend that I knew my mother wouldn’t approve of; I dated him behind her back. Using my preppy rich friends as alibis to get out of the house and really spend the nights at his house. We would watch movies; do drugs and whatever else we wanted to do.
    As you can imagine, my style changed drastically. I went from wearing the Abercrombie & Fitch to wearing Tripp and Wicked Jester clothing. I always had on metal studded something and an ever present choker from Wicked Jester with a J in the middle of it.
    My hair went from a natural blonde to a blonde with streaked red, black and blue. My eyes were always adorned with some kind of design around the outside of them. I traded in my Doc Martians for Chuck Taylor Converse and Combat Boots. My bare tan legs for my pasty fishnet clad legs.
    My room went from white and pink walls to hand painted scenes of a grave yard in the moonlight with an angel standing above my bed to protect me from the nightmares that might come and disturb me in my sleep.
    When I was 17, I came forward with my relationship with Jay. They weren’t happy with it. They took my phone, internet and car away. They kept me in the house and wouldn’t let me talk to anyone but them. They had my teachers report to them when I talked to him for 2 minutes before class would start. They pulled strings and changed his schedule to get him out of the few classes we had together.
    Jay and I both grew sick of this game and decided to runaway together. It would have worked, if it wasn’t for the drunk driver that ran that red light and smashed into the driver side of Jay’s car.
    I was beat up pretty bad and I couldn’t really move, I reached out and held Jay’s hand and whispered to him “I love you.” He said the same back, then the light faded from his eyes and his hand went limp in mine.
    His eyes will forever stay in my mind. His whisper will be echoing in my ears till I draw my last breath. I will never forget him.

    When my dad came to the hospital, he just shook his head, signed the forms and talked to the doctors about what all was broken in me. I had stitches in my wrist and in my head for two weeks. Broken ribs, bruises that covered a large portion of my body and a shattered heart.
    I would walk again, so no trouble there. But my parents would think it best that we moved to a much different place.
    Hello rural southland! My new prison and hell! Full of small towns and minimal tolerance for anything different.

    We moved into a house that looked like it belonged on the cover of a happy child’s book. I have always thought that it was a little ironic.
    I refused to give up my new look and style. Mom was annoyed but she wasn’t ever really around that much anyway. Dad was less than enthused about it as well, but once again he was hardly ever around to notice.
    When we got there and the moving truck pulled in behind us, I took the bags and pillow I had been sleep on during the whole twelve or fifteen hour drive up to the room in the corner of the house that overlooked the front part of the yard.
    There’s only one window. Perfect, less to obscure my paintings that are in my head.
    While I was checking out the room and unpacking my paints, brushes and other things needed to decorate my room, mother and father were barking out orders to the people who were helping unloading and hauling our s**t in the house.
    I put a sign on my door that said to put the s**t for my room in the next one down. You have no idea how hard it is to draw and paint out s**t on your wall while organizing and arranging your room at the same time.
    I picked through my things once my blue box came up the stairs and picked up my old sheets with paint on them and spread it over the new carpet in my room, fished out the charcoal and the pencils, ruler and stencils for words.
    I sat in the middle of my room, my laptop open in the corner playing music that helps me think and create. A blend of all kinds of genres: alternative, rock, punk, sound tracks, instrumental from my favorite movies and of course the horror core rap.
    I stared at my new blank white walls until my mom yelled up the stairs that it was time to eat. I heaved myself off of the floor, which is kind of a big thing when you’re just south of six feet tall and actually have a figure.