Spur of the Math Class Kind.

So, today I was sitting in Math class, thinking about murder.
I know. MURDER. Something's wrong with me.
Anyways.
I had this thought for a story, though it's really depressing and horrible, but it would be revolving around that, and an accidental murder. It would cover the events leading up to the murder, the way it affected people who knew the person killed, and even how the killer reacted to the situation.
I doubt it will work out, and the prologue is really cruddy, but I haven't posted in a while and figured since everyone else has... :)

Warning: Do not read if you'd actually like to think that I'm not crazy, insane, or slightly demented in mind. Kthx.

Without further ado...

The bespectacled woman was leaned over the scrap paper in front of her, eyes working furiously to decipher every hidden code that lay in the markings. She said it was for my own good that she did this, and that the paper exercise was one of the few ways she could really get me to open up and reveal my inner feelings without having to say a word. Frankly, I thought it was going to reveal how bored I’d been in Math class.
Patricia tapped a gnarled finger against the sketch pad, humming. “Let me understand. You drew a heart, a heart that was scribbled out, and some wavy lines.”
“Smoke,” I corrected.
“Smoke then. So this shape at the bottom is a cigarette, Delcie?”
Personally, I found this remark offensive. The first two years of Jr. High, I’d made the stupid choice to take art and try to become an artist. I hated it, the teacher, and most of the kids in that class, but I did learn to draw a lot better.
I blew it off, reminding myself that Patricia had to be at least eighty-one years old and blind as a bat, making her opinion completely void.
“Yes,” I said curtly, eyeing her with contempt. “That would be something that causes smoke, hence it’s placement at the bottom. Smoke can’t come out of nowhere and that’s the only thing I could really think of. Why do you want to know?” I asked sarcastically. “Does this mean that I’m going to join a gang, or that my mind is on deathly habits?”
She ignored the last comment. “You subconsciously picked a cigarette; one that kills, causes pain, and is just, ah,” She held up her arthritis-laden fingers and made air quotes. “‘bad.’ Why is that?”
“As stupid as it may seem, drawing a bunch of trees on fire wasn’t exactly on the top of the list.”
She hummed to herself for a minute, then looked up at me with the full on force of her all-knowing, I-can-make-you-obey eyes, with an expression that almost resembled new-found knowledge.
“These hearts… The one you scribbled out was perfect, and yet you ruined it. The one that’s oblong and overlapping, you leave. Why is that?’
I frowned. “Why is that? Is that all you can say?” I waited for an answer, or possibly a change of expression, but none came as she waited for me to continue.
“Because I wanted to.”
Her withered face didn’t turn to the paper like I’d expected. Instead, they bore into my own, calm and patient.
“I think,” she said with practiced carefulness, “that you like the different.”
At first, I didn’t understand. She made zero sense, but then again, most psychotherapists don’t.
“Would you like to repeat that in grammar correct English?”
She sighed, and took her glasses off, setting them on the coffee table in front of her.
“I think that you like when things are different, Delcie Taylor. You like things that are out of the ordinary, different kinds of music or art, things that most people wouldn’t care to own, or even…” She paused and looked down at my paper. She wasn’t looking for anything else. She’d cracked the code and left me defenseless. “people that are too different for most to understand.”
I didn’t speak. There was no need to. The only words that I could’ve possibly said were already out in the open, brought into the room by my stupid, ridiculous sketches that I’d done in Math, instead of taking the notes Mrs. Collins had put on the board.
“Delcie,” she said, extreme caution creeping into her voice. “you still miss him, don’t you?”
Her words were meant to be kind, but opened up a wound that had just begun to heal over a little bit. Memories were torn from inside me, feelings that I’d worked to forget swept over me, and the worst part? I had no one to go to except a woman named Patricia who my father was paying big bucks for, just to get me to go back to normal.
Mom, before she’d left, told me that he “didn’t have time to see me do it”, and dad, ever the preacher, said that “God was bound to do it sometime, I just sped up the process.”
I broke down, hot tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I tried to glare at her, but couldn’t force it.
“You… You don’t even know what you’re getting into. You’ll never, in a million lifetimes, know how I feel.”
I walked out of the office despite her protests, fighting the urge to hit something. That was the last time I saw Patricia, my eighth shrink in six weeks.

Mmkay. Depressing, sad, and possibly a horror (both in the story and the plot holes -- UGH.) So, to kind of help...

The prologue is actually a look into the future, after the murder. (Makes sense... NOT.)

The girl in it, Delcie, is anti-social at the moment.

Delcie KILLED this guy she's trying to forget. She's not a murderer, really, but just accidentally was caught in the moment, and didn't know who she was killing. Long story.

Delcie's family secretly blames her.

The therapist knows about the murder/killing ahead of time.

By the way, did anyone notice the whole thing about being "bored in Math class?" Yeah. Kind of obvious, huh?

Love... In a very, uh, morbid way?

L.

(Ps - ANNA! I FOUND MY ACTOR FOR EDWARD!!! SADLY, I CAN'T REMEMBER HIS NAME!!! :( [http://i23.photobucket.com/albums/b373/okiebean/EDWARDforrreeezal.jpg])