Mind over matter, you clench your jaw and enter your home. Hardly looking up from your sneakers to your enthusiastic mother. Your father staring you down with glowing eyes of ice blue. Overjoyed. Mother squealing beside him in rapturous happiness. Its sickening to watch.
Behind that curtain of false hope you can almost see the shadow of lies shine through. Poisoning your already scrappy mood with the feel of it upon your shoulders. Are they actually happy? Do they actually care about your grades? Weaving past them you leave.
Shutting yourself away in your room filled with open-faced books, and littered with novel pages you've written around 4am every night. Or morning. It doesn't matter to you which it is. It's all the same. You tuck your hair behind your ears, looking at yourself in the reflection in the mirror.
Your tight blue-jeans are purposefully torn. Your slim waist and voluptuous breasts perfect as your grades. Grades. Pfft. Always grades. It doesn't matter to you anymore. Its all fake and ridden with lies. You gather your books from your heavy oak desk, shoving them into your wicker waste basket.
You look back at the mirror hanging on your door and sob. Feeling anger and frustration well up inside you like a dam ready to burst. Looking sideways you see the book pages you've written. All the right and honest in your world. Your legs bending so you can brush away the top layer. Revealing dozens of hand drawn pictures you've done.
In all there are 21. Three picture per category. In this case it's boys. It's not what they think. THESE boys aren't "normal" as they'd say. They are dark. Dismal. Hard cheekbones and sleek bodies. Everything you yearn for in a lover. No one else in your life would EVER fit the bill like these boys. You even have a special name for them.
You like to call them 'The 7'. The seven most perfect guys you could want. Even though they have simply come from your imagination. But as you clench the 21 pages of charcoal drawn sketches to your bosom, and feel the pages heat with your body and heart . . . you swear they could be real enough to one day hold.