Page 5 of Prayer of the Damned

“H-hi,” I stammer.

Great.

“I’m having a graduation party at my place, wanna come? It’s tonight.” He gives me that panty-moistening smile again and I turn to stone. I blink a few times and he’s still in front of me, probably waiting for an answer that won’t get through my lips.He scans me from head to toe and slowly licks his lips. My eyes lock onto his tongue and my knees shake.

“Bella?” he raises an eyebrow.

“What?” I finally blurt out.

“Graduation party? Tonight?” He chuckles when he definitely notices the fierce blush painting my pale face. I must look like a tomato. Of course, what else? And of course, Trent’s used to girls in our class falling helpless at his feet. I, on the other hand, am really not used to the hottest guys in class flirting with me.

“S-sure…” I stammer again.Great job, Belle. Really cool of you.

“Great! So we’ll see you there!” he yells as his friends pull him back. When one of them notices who he’s talking to, his eyes widen and he scans me with a lust that makes me want to vomit.

What the hell is going on here? How did I go from being invisible, to the girl who gets pervy stares from the popular guys?

Maybe I really did die last night and this is what Heaven looks like. Or maybe not, because no one was cheering for me in the crowd, after all. I’m sure my mother would be my most eager cheerleader in Heaven. That’s why I’m sure it doesn’t exist, because that could never happen.

I turn and face the exit. I guess I have a party to get ready for. My first and last high school party.

Chapter Three

Bellcolor

Irummage through my closet – actually, scratch that, that’s what a normal teenage girl would say. I walk through the span of my roomful of closets searching for something to wear to the party, the way a normal girl would go shopping at Zara in a big American mall.

The funny thing is that the overwhelming majority of clothes displayed in the closet still have their price tags, since I never bothered to wear them. But it seems my father’s daughter can’t afford tonotown every outfit that ever hit the market.

Every price tag I look at amazes me more and more, to the point where I’m sure my eyes will roll clean out of my sockets any moment now.

I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I studied at a private school with kids who were just as rich as me, but wearing a dress worth six figures to a high school party seems a bit much to me.

Finally, I choose a black bell skirt that stops over my knees, and a simple white strapless shirt, since they both go with my black flats. I'd rather not put on new shoes that’ll murder myfeet tonight. I decided it’d be best to go for the simple look, even if they were bought at some foreign super-designer’s store for a fortune.

I shower, dry my hair and decide to put some effort into it for a change, styling it into soft curls. I sit by the vanity, lean in towards the mirror and notice that the pigmentation in my irises have spread a bit. I tug on the skin around my eyes. Damn, that’s weird. Am I going blind? I’d think so if my vision wasn’t clearer than ever before.

I make a note to keep track of the pigmentation before it becomes a problem, and put in my color contacts. I blink for long moments to get used to them, and wipe away the stray tears as my eyes refuse to accept them.

When I manage to keep my eyes open without blinking like a crazy person, I put on my makeup – dark smoky eyes, light pink blush because my skin’s gotten so pale I look like a walking corpse, and shiny bright pink lip-gloss.

I review my efforts and I can say that I’m… satisfied. The bell skirt gives my body the illusion of curves, and the strapless shirt actually complements my almost-flat chest. My eyeshadow is perfectly suitable for the whole goth girl vibe, but the light pink softens it a bit, and the blush I drew across my cheeks highlights my cheekbones.

Okay.

My cellphone starts ringing, pulling my hypnotized gaze away from my new look.

I glance at the screen to see the caller ID, even though I already know there’s only one person who could be calling me.

“Hi, Dad,” I glance at the clock. It’s 8 PM our time, meaning it’s 10 AM in Tokyo. Doesn’t he have some important meeting to be at?

“Hello, Bellcolor, how was your graduation?” he asks with exemplary politeness. There’s no excitement in his voice at allthat I’ve reached such a defining moment in my life, a supposed transition into adulthood.

“Fine, it’s over and done with.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and I stifle the disdainful scoff that almost escaped my mouth.

“Thank you very much,” I force myself to reply.

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