Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Just a Small Town Girl

Just a Small Town Girl

by Nikki 7 reviews

This is novel length, be warned. Briella is new in Jersey. Let's just say a lot happens. It's only a matter of time until everything get blown chemically out of proportion.

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama - Published: 2009-03-08 - Updated: 2009-03-08 - 2441 words

Hello, readers. As you all know I'm Nikki LeStrange and this is my new story. Yes, it is novel length. Yes, it is lined up chronologically with reality (as always not the present). No, it is not Frerard or Frikey or any other slash you love. I'm not going to give a detailed outline of this story, you'll just have to read it for yourself. Please let me know what you think of it in a review. Also feel free to rate this story. I hope you all enjoy!
Nikki LeStrange

P.S. The title is from Journey =P

What are you doing? I asked myself for what seemed like the zillionth time. Here I was, leaving everything I've ever known for nothing really. I can't help but tear up at the thought of leaving my entire life essentially behind. I've dreamed of this supposed glorious day since I was twelve; the day I leave my parents house, my home. Now that I have the opportunity that I'm taking to leave my small, country home, I can't help but get this feeling that I'm doing something wrong, or that something's off. How stupid does that sound? I've hated this ridiculously small, redneck infested town my entire life. Why on earth would I wait until it's virtually too late to actually give a fuck about this place? Sometimes I get the notion that I'm insane...

I look at my family portrait as I sit coach on this cheap airplane. My sister, Nikki. Nikki is three years younger than me and we have hated each other since birth and have never been what anyone would call sisterly toward each other. I'm going to miss that bitch. I think the reason we detest each other so much is the fact we are too much alike. Now, I would pretty much give anything to go back to any one of our many, many arguments or violent fights to just stop and hug her. How cheesy can I be, exactly? Because I feel that I'm passing some unwritten line of cliché right about now. Daisy, my baby sister. She's eight at this moment and I'm leaving, probably never to come back again. How is she going to see that? As her big sister leaving her because she found something more entertaining? Who am I kidding; Daisy will undoubtedly not notice that her freak-ish sister is gone. But I will always love her; maybe because of all those eleven year-old boys that she beat up for saying things about Nikki and me. Maybe because, like it at times or not, we're sisters.

Right now I sit, crying my naturally onyx colored eyes out, while people in every direction sitting around me are as fine as fiddles. I see a flight attendant make a bee-line for me. She's obviously one of those 'secretly' rock 'n' roll lovers who have this typical job where their uniform thankfully covers all of their tattoos. I can tell that she took her lip ring out before coming to work based on nothing more than the fact she keeps biting the right side of her lip. I do that to my lip ring only mine's on the left side because I have a stud on the right side of my nose. If they were on the same side I would be too much off balance; I have major OCD.

"Excuse me, miss, may I--" the fight attendant started but cut herself of when she saw my face. Dammit. Of all the flight attendants to be on the plane I am, in the same class I am, in the same section I am, I had to get the rocker from Hell; the piercing lover no less. "Dude, nice metal," she said lowering her tone so that only I could hear her. She would probably be in a lot of trouble for a comment like that if any of her superiors over heard her. "Oh, sorry. May I get you anything?" she asked with a wink. I gulped. I wasn't in the mood to have any lesbian flight attendant with a love for needles hitting on me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not homophobic. I'm bisexual myself, but I just really don't want to have to deal with this right now.

"Thanks," I said trying to control the natural sweetness my voice had when I'm put in a different situation that I'm not used to. For some reason, my voice gets a littler higher and very dreamy when I'm nervous; I think it's a way to kind of pretend I'm not me, that I'm some one else. "And no thank you. I'm fine." I did my best to use a dismissive tone, but I don't think it worked at well as I thought. She left me alone though, so I was happy enough.

"Let me know if there is anything I can get you." I wasn't oblivious enough to miss the sexual undertone her statement had to it. I had to say, I grimaced; not to her face of course, that's rude. I waited until she walked away. I had a headache for some unknown reason so I did the only thing that ever helps with one of my headaches; put my ear buds in and cranked up some screamo on my iPod. I know that it's quite unusual to relieve a headache for anyone, even me, but it works so I don't question it.


I walked out of the airport and put on my sunglasses, not that they were needed much because it was misty and clouds covered the sky; the smog didn't help. I was thankful that my best friend, Lily, had given me the heads up to go ahead and send most of my things to my apartment because I didn't have the energy to carry everything I own how many ever miles to my new-- new to me-- apartment. I tried to think of where I was; I looked around at all the street signs around me. I probably should have taken the fact that I've never been here or anywhere near here into consideration, but being the irrational person that I am, I didn't. One sign in particular stood out to me; Fiash Street. I suddenly remember how to get to my apartment complex from here so I flagged down the first cab I saw and told the cabbie where I needed to go: 479 Riley Street, which wasn't too far.

"You new he-ah?" the cabbie asked, his New York accent dripping. I couldn't help but wonder why anyone would leave New York-- sounded like the Bronx-- for to New Jersey. Then, I realized that I was in no position to ask why anyone would move to New Jersey because I did without one reason or having once been here. I'm an idiot.

"No," I lied; thankful that I had this weird hybrid accent that was something between New Jersey, Canadian, and a hint of southern. I'm not sure where it came from. "I was born 'n' raised in Camden. Whut 'bout you?" I asked-- channeling the New York side of my voice-- quickly changing the subject from me to him. I loved lying, but everything I loved seemed to be changing lately, so it was only a matter of time until that did as well I suppose. I couldn't help but feel excited that I was in such a different situation. I love change; that will never be different.

"From da Brawnx." Oh yeah! Score one for me. I couldn't help but smile at his words. But the first person I meet here just had to be a rather creepy cabbie, didn't it? "Aye, whar've I seen you from? Cawz I've seen yous from somwhar, but I just can't put mah fingah awn it," he said looking in the rearview mirror more frequently. He gruffed and shuffled in his seat. "Hmm. You eva done Playboy ah somethin'? Cawz you do look very fahmiliah."

I shook my head laughing. I've never been to New York or even New Jersey until now for that matter. And I'm pretty sure I've never done Playboy. It's funny how everyone thinks they know every person they come in contact with from 'some where'. "Naw, I've never done Playboy," I laughed out. "But, aye, maybe you have seen me somewherah. Iss possible." I loved just focusing on one part of my voice, but it was very strange to hear.

"Well, whas ya name? Dat may help," he said. It was nice he was trying to make conversation even if it did mean I felt the need to lock my doors the very second I got home. Oh, wow, home. I really didn't expect to call it home so soon. It's like... having your dog die and then getting another one five seconds later. Eww, gross analogy.

I hesitated telling my name. I wasn't exactly comfortable just giving out information to someone who already made me a little skeptical. I caved. "Briella Andres," I said doing a fairly decent job of hiding my skepticism to give away my name. I watched him as he was probably going through all the girls he had every met whose name started with a B. I highly doubt he's ever met a Briella before. I don't think there is another Briella anywhere that he could've met.

"Naw, I guess I wahs wrawng. I don't know no Briella," he said shaking his head as if he just failed a great personal goal. It was a little unsettling how big of deal it seemed to him. I was thankful for the next thing that he said. "Well, Miss Andres, here's yer stawp."

I grabbed my messenger bag-- Emily the Strange no less-- and paid the man. I stood there on the dingy sidewalk looking up at the complex. It wasn't nearly as run-down as I had imagined. It wasn't immaculate by a mile, but it was good enough. I walked into the building with no hesitation; I was ready to get my thing settled in my first place of my very own. Much to my excitement I was on the second floor of the grand total of six. I walked the hallway slowly careful to take in my surroundings. I felt as if a little luck was on my side when I didn't hear a baby screaming on my floor; I wasn't thrilled at the idea of having a baby crying at all hours of the night near me.

I quickly slid my key into the doorknob to unlock it; I mimicked my actions with the deadbolt. I was relieved to see piles and piles of boxes sitting in the living room; that means no one had stolen my things. I locked the door behind me and walked around the boxes to get a better look at the place. The kitchen was connected to the living room, only separated by a counter. Off to the side of the kitchen was a bedroom. The door next to the entrance to the bedroom was a bathroom. On the other end of the apartment, past the living room, was another bedroom that was smaller than the first.

I didn't waste any time unpacking my things, which was actually fun for me because for once I could put anything where ever I wanted. I convinced my self it didn't take long because of my enthusiasm, but in truth it wouldn't have taken long anyway because everything was already sorted out in the boxes; thank you OCD. I decided to use the smaller bedroom as a storage space/ art studio because I hadn't anticipated more than one bedroom and only bought one bed; not that I would have bought another just because of the extra bedroom.

I flopped on my totally ghey, blue couch when I was done. I was surprised when I checked the time on my cell phone to learn that I had only spent a few hours putting everything away. I looked around; it looked just like a home should... except for pictures. I didn't have any pictures of family or friends other than that one to put anywhere through out the place. Now that I think about it, without pictures to prove that people live here, it kind of looks like a set for movie or TV show or something. Note to self: have some one send you pictures.

"Fuck yes," I said to no one in particular. I finally did it; I escaped my hometown alive. No, this is my home now. It sure did feel like it. If it weren't for the laceration on my thumb from screwing up with a box cutter to prove that I just moved in, I would have thought I had lived here my entire life. It's funny how some things just work out that way. I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

I looked a hot mess. My hair was sticking out in at least thirteen different directions and my eye make-up was all smudgy. I smoothed down my hair with a red hairbrush that came with a toiletry kit that some one gave me as a going away present; I think they thought I was going to college, not going to happen. I grabbed a tissue from the corner of the counter and fixed my eyes the best I could. I looked decent now, but still not pretty or anything. My pale skin and 'full' lips stood out with my black hair and lip ring accenting them. I could see parts of my tattoo of a star on the front side of my shoulder from behind my Pantera t-shirt.

"Ah, fuck, I need coffee," I mumbled to myself. I should really stop talking to myself; it makes seem a little weirder. Oh, well, I mean, I have no one else to talk to at the moment. And at least I know that I'll respond... unless I'm in public of course; that's just asking for big men in white jackets to throw you in the loony bin.

Starbucks away!

Thank you for reading the first chapter of my story! I am posting the second chapter immediately after this, but you will not get the rest of the story until I have sufficient reviews. Let's be honest: why write if no one reads? I apologize that there is no My Chemical Romance in the first chapter, but there is in the second and after that you will be drowned in all the Chemical. =P
As always, rate and review.

Nikki LeStrange
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