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I was basically raised in a handcrafted prison of misery—also known as St. Petersburg, Florida. Sun-soaked suburbia masquerading as paradise. Unfortunately, I still rot here, tethered by a pact made with my parental units (ugh). If I stayed here for college they'd pay for my education. If I had a say in anything, I'd be somewhere colder, moodier, and generally more tolerable—but no, I’m stuck in this blindingly bright coastal purgatory until I can afford my escape.
The only silver lining in this sun-bleached nightmare is that Mother Dearest agreed to let me live on campus as long as I keep my grades passable. So now I’ve got a dorm room that’s all mine (thank god), even if I’m forced to share a bathroom and common area with four other girls. Whatever. We’ve formed a fragile peace treaty based on mutual disinterest.
My room? Sanctuary. It’s drowned in deep shadows, black sheets, an army of posters, and stacks of books no one else cares to understand. My blackout curtains are always drawn, guarding my little abyss from the obnoxious Florida sunshine—though I occasionally crack the window to smoke and overanalyze the lives of people outside who seem irritatingly okay.
In summary: I loathe it here. Every day feels like a sunburn on my soul.
My so-called income mostly comes from the people legally obligated to care about me—aka my parents. I tried to be a “functioning member of society” once. Got a job slinging overpriced caffeine at some soulless coffee chain and briefly endured the fluorescent despair of a convenience store. Both were actual hell. No one there understood me. I was just a ghost in eyeliner, scanning Funyuns for people who’d never read a book without pictures.
Thankfully, my dad throws enough corporate blood money my way to keep me alive—something about a soul-crushing office job and “doing what you have to do.” Whatever. If the system’s going to exploit him, might as well let it fund my misery.
When I need a little extra to fuel my caffeine addiction or buy more black eyeliner, I tutor some of the academically doomed. I may look like I cry in cemeteries (because I do), but I’m actually disgustingly smart. It’s a burden.
I’ve always known I was meant for something more. Something bigger. Darker. Louder. Even when I was a kid, I didn’t fit into the mold everyone else seemed so eager to crawl into. I wasn’t built for beige suburbia or pastel friendships. I was too small, too sharp, too clever, too ambitious. Cocky? Sure. Intense? Definitely. But I’ve never been anything but unapologetically myself.
And still—no one else ever really saw it. No one got it. They just stared like I was an oddity to be filed away or fixed. Whatever.
Now I’ve got a real shot—an actual chance to claw my way into the story I’ve always known I belonged to. To become one of those heroines I used to read about under the covers at night while the world slept and I couldn’t. The messy kind. The kind with scars and blood on their boots. I’m not afraid to get wrecked along the way. I always get back up. But let’s be clear: I won’t become a monster. I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it. That’s not my path. I want to change my fate—not lose my soul trying.
Vanessa Lambert (Roomate) - one of Dawn's roommates. She puts up with and takes her bad attitude in stride. Her cheery attitude helps offset Dawn's more negative energy and she's always willing to lend a hand when needed. Though Dawn will never admit it, Vanessa is the closest friend she has.
Sonny Newday (Brother) - Dawn sees him as a dark hero figure. He left town when he was eighteen years old and never looked back. While he's been ostracized from the family due to his sudden leaving and bad decisions, Dawn still writes to him but she hasn't had and correspondence back.
Mary Newday (Mother) - a stay at home mother who makes extra money selling jewelry. She's loving and caring and always tries her best to connect with her daughter while she can. Though she does have her moments of irritation she still tries to get into Dawn's interests and makes sure she's fed well and has a place to rest whenever she needs.
My childhood? A total cliché of suburban despair. Blindingly bright. Soul-crushingly mundane. My parental units made it their life’s mission to program me and my brother for assimilation—polite little drones, prepped to blend into the beige masses. Always on time. Always scrubbed clean and tucked in. Always sitting in stiff silence at church, pretending we didn’t feel dead inside. It was torture dressed up as “a good upbringing.” I hated every second of it.
Everything changed when my brother broke free—when he finally escaped this suffocating, pastel-painted prison. And then, and only then, my parents realized: maybe forcing their daughter to march toward the same mind-numbing corporate fate wasn’t gonna work. So they backed off. Left me to figure myself out.
High school was the first time my dark, metaphorical raven wings got to unfurl. I didn’t fit their mold. I didn’t want their empty smiles or their plastic friendships. I was born to be other. And honestly? I’m better for it.
I’ve had my share of admirers—both boys and girls pulled in by whatever magnetic curse my darkness casts. They get intrigued, drawn by my vibe, thinking they can handle it. Spoiler: they can’t. I’ve turned them all away, obviously. None of them have come close to matching my intrigue or holding my attention for longer than it takes me to finish a cigarette.
If the universe ever decides to stop toying with me and sends me a dark prince or princess who actually gets it then maybe I’d consider letting someone in. But so far, every would-be suitor has been just another disappointing chapter in my anthology of boredom.
Honestly? I don’t fear anything and why would I? Fear is for weak minded sheeple without a backbone. But if I had to name a nightmare that keeps me up when the world is too quiet—it’s this: becoming normal. Losing the parts of me that are mysterious, strange, and dark. I wasn’t born to blend in. I wasn’t made for cookie-cutter happiness or some pastel lifestyle where I smile at the right times, marry some hollow person, and rot in an office cubicle. The idea of waking up and realizing I’ve been swallowed by that bland machine—that is horror. To forget who I am, to soften the edges, to become one of them... I can’t think of anything worse.
Every day I see it. The fake smiles. The desperate conformity. People selling their souls for likes, for approval, for the illusion of belonging. I’d rather die than be another cog in their broken machine. I'd prefer death over that kind of ending. But I refuse to bend. I won’t wear their masks or speak in their empty pleasantries. I’ll stay other, no matter the cost. Because if I lose myself to this world’s expectations, then I was never really alive to begin with.
Conformity? Fuck that.
Switchblade – I have this like, black switchblade knife that my brother left behind that I take everywhere with me. The handle’s covered in stickers I hand-picked, all of them as dark and defiant as I am. I carved Cut Deep into the blade itself—because that’s what I do. I cut through the bullshit. Through expectations. Through the invisible chains trying to drag me into the same empty fate he ran from. It’s not just a weapon. It’s a promise. I carry it as a reminder: I carve my own path and I'll never conform.
Dark Leather-bound Journal – My journal is my sanctuary. Always near, always ready to absorb the thoughts too heavy and dark to say out loud. The cover’s cracked, the pages dog-eared, scarred by ink and time. It’s been with me through sleepless nights, fleeting sparks of inspiration, and moments when the weight of existence gets too much. When it's fully filled, it’ll join the others on my shelf—silent witnesses to my life. Who knows? Maybe one day these journals will end up being tomes for other outcasts to inherit some of my infinite knowledge. But for now, they're only for me.
