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Evil Cheerleader Barbie
3/28/2006 10:16 am Last Read: |
So you're a new one, are you? It was amazing how much derisive vitriol could be packed into such a short sentence. It made Celine's shoulders tense almost immediately, her brow furrowing over her closed eyes. It was the voice of some spoiled, Long Beach girl slumming in Soho and sneering at the artists and freaks. It was a preppy type of voice, fake brightness with an undercurrent of disgust for anyone who wasn't them; rich, white, blond and perfect. Celine hated that kind of voice; it dredged up memories of sneering laughter and nasty middle-school politics. New one...where am I then? Camden? West End? By that accent, probably West End. Don't remember getting here. Did I take something...? Well, get up out of the gutter then, even though you rather look like you belong there, continued the razorblades-in-sunshine voice. Celine's teeth gritted through the pounding headache. If it's some sort of Barbie cheerleader b!tch, I'll kick her teeth in once I manage to stand up. Celine opened her eyes and rose from the doorway step where she was crouched painfully at first, but then in some surprise she wasn't hurt. Even her headache was fading. She could feel that sensation again, however; the adrenaline rush building in her gut, almost like a sickness, or a fever. Due to that bloody voice perhaps the voice she was going to have to smash back into someone's pouty pastel face. Indeed, she was drawing her arm back before she even knew she was doing it, taking a step forward onto the cobblestone alley, meeting the gaze of her taunter with a steady, blank expression. And Dark stared back. It was Cheerleader Barbie all right, and yet...it was almost like a parody. The hair so golden-blond it couldn't possibly be natural indeed, there was something about the colour that suggested Barbie was trying to draw attention to the fact it was fake. The dark tan one couldn't possibly possess in England was there on every starved, nearly anorexic limb. The chewing gum which not even chavs partook of any more snapped and popped between perfect teeth. Even a stereotypical belly button piercing which nearly every mundane woman had now was displayed proudly beneath the knotted tails of the Oxford shirt, and the co-ed style skirt, entirely too short for a real co-ed to wear. From the smoky eye shadow to the stiletto boots, every single cliché and stereotype which represented a spoiled young Lolita had been put in place. If it had been warmer, she'd have worn merely a bikini and rollerskates, Celine was certain of it. And in the young woman's crystal blue eyes was a mocking, dark flicker, telling Celine she knew she was a cliché and sham...and she merely found it amusing. Both girls watched each other surly artist and cocky prep over the cobblestones of Netherwhere, and the Dark surged through both. I didn't really see this character coming. She just strode into the front of my brain, platinum hair shining, and took a Lolita-cliche pose...and there she was. A conglomeration of the nastiest girls I knew in high school with a bit of a few other archetypes, left to boil and ferment into a nasty soup, garnished with a co-ed outfit. I'm sure we all knew one girl who was poison in a pretty package in our younger days. She looked good, she had the best clothes, walked with the "in" crowd, had the cutest boyfriend. She was the ideal for many - and no one had the slightest inkling what a nasty piece of work was lurking beneath that Brillo-dent smile. Vicious, sadistic and spoiled, she got away with murder solely because nobody believed she could possibly do all the awful things rumoured about her. They must have just been nasty lies by jealous people. But she was just plain evil, through and through. You either lusted after her or hated her...or both. I had one in my school. She lived for tormenting me, and was very good at her job - we're not talking a few malicious teases. We're talking thought out, planned nastiness. As in offering to have sex with various guys as long as they would help her in the tormenting. Seducing the counsellor at the school so he'd write off anything said about her. Just. Plain. Wicked. A tried and true sadist. It was only by having very pacifist parents I didn't just go to school with a pistol and kill her - but it was also by having very pacifist parents I put up with her for years. It's a different story now, but I admit she did teach me revenge is a dish best served cold. I lost weight. I lived a very bad-kitty life for some time, soley by keeping her face in the front of my mind as if to say to myself "Who's laughing now, darling?" The only reason I'd go to a high school reunion these days would be to walk right up to her and knock her on her butt like I should have done 20 years ago. And then I'd laugh. In a way, she taught me everything she knew. Our vicious little vixen is called Stacy in my writing, the beautiful darling on the outside, sick and twisted on the inside, and probably every man's dream. Thing is, it's all a joke to her. She doesn't take it at all seriously, which is perhaps the most sadistic of all. She's a walking shell of a person, playing into the fantasy, but never truly believing it. She laughs at the men who want her, laughs and laughs and laughs at the fact they're buying into the facade - or perhaps NOT buying into it, but wanting so hard to believe they blind themselves. Truly vicious piece of work. I almost admire her, if she didn't piss me off so badly. She'll be a brilliant character. But those stiletto boots are made of clay, as she'll soon find out in Netherwhere. It will be Celine's turn to laugh then. |
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