Alexandra Grey. When you look at this boy, you see a fifteen year old who has shunned himself from the world. His unkempt copper hair, is brushed over his eyes and feathering his cheeks; his face is shadowed beneath a black cap; his body is concealed in baggy jeans and a heavy cotton jacket.
He marches into his house, head bent down, his gait hasty.
'Hey honey! How was school?' His moms uninterested cheerfullness implied that she didn't exactly expect an answer.
'Yeah, fine, whatever,' he grunted.
'How are your friends?'
'Cool'. I don't have any.
'That's so nice to hear love. Lunch?'
'Not hungry,' he mumbled.
'What's that on your face?'
'Paint,' he rushed into his room, shoved the bolt in place and slid down to the floor, knocking his head into the wall.
He catches glimpse of his face in the mirror, dripping with blood. His eyes is protruding, dramatic hues of black and blue. His nose, his lip, is ruptured. His skin is torn, where they raked a blade through.
They were killing him.