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Personal Narrative-Goth Girl

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Later, when I had gotten up to throw the rest of my lunch away—what I didn’t feel like eating that is, which was most of it—I had come back to my table to find a note sitting on my unattended books. It said, GO HOME WITCH!!! and had been written in thick, black marker. When I had read it, I felt a whole ambivalence of emotions begin coursing through me. Part of me wanted to cry and just run away, never to come back to Mount Harrison ever again. Another part of me wanted to kick ass like a proud Southern girl should. I just wished I had the courage to do something like what that Goth girl, Katelyn, did to Donnie Reese yesterday. Walk right up to them at their table and just spit in their faces. I folded up the note and stuffed it inside …show more content…

I didn’t have to look at them to know that. I just knew. I could feel it. So quickly, I tried to calm myself in hopes of regaining my composure, but to no avail. Tears were now streaming from my eyes and I could feel my blood pressure rising as it warmed my face. I could also hear my heart beating in my ears like a bass drum as I tried covering my face with my hands so that nobody could see me, and I them. As I went on with my fit, I bent myself over facing the floor, and after a while of being head down. After I had thought I was going to pop with laughter. I slowly began to regain my …show more content…

“It got me three days worth of detention, but it was worth it. I can’t stand those jerks over there.” She then nodded towards the bitches and their meatheads. “I would take detention every day for the rest of my life if I could just spit in their faces daily.” “Why are they like that?” I asked her beseechingly. “I mean, do they automatically hate you because you dress somewhat differently or something? Kinda like how they hate me for being from the South?” “No,” Katelyn then said flippantly while letting out a little giggle. “They hate me because I’m a witch, and that’s a big no-no in Mount Harrison.” “What?” I asked flabbergasted. “What do you mean, you’re a witch?” “Just what I said. I’m a witch.” “There are no such things as witches,” I responded back to her dismissively. “Sure there are,” Katelyn said, and then she pulled out a pentagram medallion she wore under her shirt as a necklace. It appeared as if made from silver and at its center and on each point it had weird symbols that I couldn’t quite make out. It had instantly made me think of the pentagram I had seen done up in white paint and salt on the basement floor of my grandmother’s house—My

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