English Work =(

Heeey, at the moment i'm doing my A Level english coursework.
For it we could basically write whatever we wanted within reason. Will you have a read through and tell me what you think? Because i'm not too sure about it myself.
Thanx =)
xXx

Raven is my name. You may come to understand that I am not your typical 16-year old girl. My life, well, isn?t the same as everyone else?s. It?s as if my heart beats differently than yours. I suppose that could be why I have decided to document important events in my life to carry on my memory after I am gone. But that might just be because my existence could end at any second. Everyone is a suspect. A possible killer. There are eyes everywhere. Forever watchful.

Sometimes I dream of a thousand eyeballs holding their incessant gaze over me. I try to blow them away, I scream, hands clench, the walls of eyes close in. Dreams like these as inconvenient as they are, bring up vital points about my life and I know that they are just representations of what is, or what could be. Everyone is watching, waiting to strike. My dreams, or should I say nightmares, are merely warnings.

Ok, I know I don't hold the regular reaction, compared to how an ordinary person would respond to such nocturnal torment. This word normal that people speak of is a difficult one to comprehend. What is normal? These days the so-called 'average' sixteen year old girl paints her face orange, almost subserviently listens to robotic thumping in place of music (I use the term 'music' loosely) as this is the ?seen? thing to do, only to have conversations in the incoherent mumblings of Neanderthals, sadly these days being illiterate seems to be a fashion trend. I know that I am seen as odd, because I prefer to use 'big words', instead of sounding like I couldn't beat a 5 year old at a spelling B. Because I like real music, that expresses real emotions. Because I live, love and even breathe the heavy tuneful sound of rock.

School, for most children is not a wanted place. We spend the early years of our lives longing not to go, every morning the same feeling of dread lodged in our chests. Then, in most occurrences, after leaving and not having to go back again, we wish that we could repeat our youthful years of education. Perhaps then we?d of made better lives for ourselves.

I was still at the stage where I had to go. No questions asked. Only in the case of serious illness is spending a day in bed, as opposed to spending a day of ridicule and torment acceptable.

During my school days I was completely alienated. To be honest I don?t think a single soul like mine attended public school. Let alone the institution of idiocy that I went to. Mostly I placed myself as inconspicuously as possible, in a corner at the back, (so people couldn?t throw things from behind me) my long black thick hair like an iron curtain which usually hid my pale face. Only the flash of my vivid green eyes, heavily lined in black could be glimpsed.

Hiding within myself, I could pretend I wasn?t there. I?d focus on my work. In my head I comforted myself thinking that it cannot get any worse than this. It was a never ending parade of ?hatred penetrating through my shield, vibrating my whole body until I could barely hold back the tears, but I promised myself not to cry. I would never crack, well that is what I thought then. I told myself that I only had one year left ?in this hell hole. It turned out to be less than that.

For a long time anger has been building up inside of me. I never would allow myself to express it. I was too scared of what I was capable of if I did. But you see, like a volcano, sooner or later the pressure gets to much. Eventually you will erupt. The smallest spark can ignite the explosion.

This painful event began ?in an English lesson. The usual ?popular? types, decided to throw things other than insults. Bombs of paraphernalia launched at me. Come on, what would you expect? Wouldn?t you retaliate? I had this incontrollable urge to hurt them. The absolute anger boiling in my veins. ?I managed ?to soothe my anger by grabbing a pile of hard back books. I must say that I have a good aim. I got all of them on the head with a book each.

Needless to say, now that someone else had joined in the teacher ?realised that she had to do something about this interruption to her class. She angrily wrote us a detention slip each.

Now, would you think it wise to leave two wicked bullies and the girl that they are bullying alone in a classroom? I know I don?t. It isn?t exactly the most fair form of discipline.

The teacher began to supervise us as we silently did our lines. I will not disrupt the lesson again. After a while she went off to discuss issues with another member of staff . Leaving me with two youths full of resentment, eager for revenge.

I remember sighing to myself, ? here we go??. With no sense of organisation or direction they started the torment; not only did they shout abuse and pound on my fragile body, they whispered evil and wicked things in my ears.

Tried to keep control. The rage bubbled. Pumped through me. The temptation was impossible to ignore, something snapped. I couldn?t resist the urge to grab their heads and smash them repeatedly against the desk.

Such a shame that their blood stained the brand new carpeting on the classroom floor. Such a shame the teacher screamed and cried when she found their lifeless bodies as I presented her with my completed lines.

Life so easily taken away, and so awful to cope with. I suppose there are some small blessings; the warming tone of my mothers understanding voice as it touches my ears during visiting hours. Or when I am under constant surveillance they?ll allow me to have a pen just long enough to recount my story in this book.