Post by Julia on May 27, 2007 21:45:34 GMT -5
ooc: Haihai guys (: Im using Nix. Or Nixqe if you wanna look her up on neo. Oh, and dont mind the curses. :3 Nix has a dirty mouth.
bic:
“Do your homework!”
“Clean the dishes!”
“Pick up your laundry!”
The ranting and raving of her mother rung through her head as Nix laid face up on her bed. The woman was such a nagger, and Nix was rather fed up with it.
Maybe it was the teenager syndrome or just a love-hate relation, but Nix, the eight teen year old student at Gothvaen High, hated her mother since she turned thirteen. The female knew all the hateful things she said to her mother weren’t true, but she wasn’t sure if her own mother knew this. Some times Nix could really get temper mental, and would lash out on her mother.
“Nixie Elizabeth Brinkerhoff! Do you hear me?” Sandra, Nix’s mother, called from the bottom of the stairs, up to Nix’s room.
“Shut up already!” Nix yelled back, her temper meter rising as she felt herself get hot with anger. And with a flick of a switch and a roll of the dial, music blazed out of the teenager’s stereo. The sudden quietness to the loud rhythmic tunes of her CD even made her jump a little. The house vibrated from the base, making Nix’s father very unhappy.
But before he could say any thing, Nix flew out the front door, leaving her lights, her stereo, and her TV on. Oh well, who thinks about energy when their 18?
As soon as the night’s air hit Nix’s frail body, the anger in her disappeared like a passing storm. A smile turned on her face, adjusting the olive colored strap on her bag. She brought that bag every where with her. It was a messenger bag, olive in color but dulled over the years. Buttons with random quotes and sayings and lyrics on them covered the flap, and jiggled when she opened the bag up to get some thing inside. Speaking of inside, that bag had every thing. Nix’s necessities. A small lime green sticky note pad (who knew when you needed to write some thing down), a pink pen with had a feather at the end (and some how didn’t write pink; which upset Nix at first), a pack of cigarettes (ah, a dirty habit she picked up last year. But shh, don’t tell her mother), a black lighter with white stripes, a black iPod which had more scratches that her car, and a video camera. She had two video cameras, one that was much more professional and heavier, with a fish eyed lenses. Nix, of course, left that one at home. But the one she brought with her was small, easily held in one hand, and did the job perfectly.
The night was surprisingly warm, so Nix had on a simple white and red striped vintage t-shirt, leading down to her thighs which were clad in a pair of ripped jean shorts. They were frayed at the edges, and looked destroyed. Not the normal fashionista way, but the way that she’d done on accident. Her hair was as like it always was, let down into waves and held back with a few bobby pins. And of course, her purple head band she always wore. That head band kept no hair away from her face, it just looked good to her.
Finally reaching the construction site, a place her mother prohibited her to go to, a grin turned on her lips and she rushed closer. She’d been to this place a million times, now a second home to her. Almost. If it had windows and doors and roofs and…just…every thing that a home needs. But it was alone, without a nagging mother or a short tempered father and a very annoying sister. Once inside the empty half built building, she sat down in the middle of the floor (before brushing any excess debris away), and crossed her legs into Indian style. Ah, this was the life.
bic:
“Do your homework!”
“Clean the dishes!”
“Pick up your laundry!”
The ranting and raving of her mother rung through her head as Nix laid face up on her bed. The woman was such a nagger, and Nix was rather fed up with it.
Maybe it was the teenager syndrome or just a love-hate relation, but Nix, the eight teen year old student at Gothvaen High, hated her mother since she turned thirteen. The female knew all the hateful things she said to her mother weren’t true, but she wasn’t sure if her own mother knew this. Some times Nix could really get temper mental, and would lash out on her mother.
“Nixie Elizabeth Brinkerhoff! Do you hear me?” Sandra, Nix’s mother, called from the bottom of the stairs, up to Nix’s room.
“Shut up already!” Nix yelled back, her temper meter rising as she felt herself get hot with anger. And with a flick of a switch and a roll of the dial, music blazed out of the teenager’s stereo. The sudden quietness to the loud rhythmic tunes of her CD even made her jump a little. The house vibrated from the base, making Nix’s father very unhappy.
But before he could say any thing, Nix flew out the front door, leaving her lights, her stereo, and her TV on. Oh well, who thinks about energy when their 18?
As soon as the night’s air hit Nix’s frail body, the anger in her disappeared like a passing storm. A smile turned on her face, adjusting the olive colored strap on her bag. She brought that bag every where with her. It was a messenger bag, olive in color but dulled over the years. Buttons with random quotes and sayings and lyrics on them covered the flap, and jiggled when she opened the bag up to get some thing inside. Speaking of inside, that bag had every thing. Nix’s necessities. A small lime green sticky note pad (who knew when you needed to write some thing down), a pink pen with had a feather at the end (and some how didn’t write pink; which upset Nix at first), a pack of cigarettes (ah, a dirty habit she picked up last year. But shh, don’t tell her mother), a black lighter with white stripes, a black iPod which had more scratches that her car, and a video camera. She had two video cameras, one that was much more professional and heavier, with a fish eyed lenses. Nix, of course, left that one at home. But the one she brought with her was small, easily held in one hand, and did the job perfectly.
The night was surprisingly warm, so Nix had on a simple white and red striped vintage t-shirt, leading down to her thighs which were clad in a pair of ripped jean shorts. They were frayed at the edges, and looked destroyed. Not the normal fashionista way, but the way that she’d done on accident. Her hair was as like it always was, let down into waves and held back with a few bobby pins. And of course, her purple head band she always wore. That head band kept no hair away from her face, it just looked good to her.
Finally reaching the construction site, a place her mother prohibited her to go to, a grin turned on her lips and she rushed closer. She’d been to this place a million times, now a second home to her. Almost. If it had windows and doors and roofs and…just…every thing that a home needs. But it was alone, without a nagging mother or a short tempered father and a very annoying sister. Once inside the empty half built building, she sat down in the middle of the floor (before brushing any excess debris away), and crossed her legs into Indian style. Ah, this was the life.