Just to let ya know, I do NOT own The Breakfast Club or anything in this story, really.
(Rated "T" for suicidal thoughts and actions.)
It all depended on Monday. I don't know why, I guess it just did. Monday was a huge looming… something in my mind that made me feel hopeful and frightened all at the same time. Would it turn out to be a giant waiting to stomp on me or a great set of paints that Picasso once used that were worth millions (or something like that)? Would they treat me like they normally do – like dirt – or will we be friends? And I wasn't quite sure if the giant was if they treated me like dirt or actually noticed me for once. Does having friends have repercussions? I wouldn't know.
I stumbled through the morning, not noticing anything except a tight feeling in my chest and the knife I had swiped of John Bender. It was laying on my silver nightstand looking innocent and sharp. I grabbed my bag and headed out my bedroom door. I was in the kitchen by the time I realized I really wanted to bring the knife with me. I raced back and dropped it into my purse.
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No flames, please. Constructive criticism welcomed. Also, spelling/grammar checkers. Let me know if yousee anything!