Flipside; Prolouge

by Cj in a place where I can sing my heart out

Prologue

Link’s POV

            Bla. My life sucks. Some people wouldn’t agree with me, but that’s the main factoid. I mean, how would it feel, if you had to pretend you’re something you’re not?

My life is quite hard already. Starting with my name. I hate it frankly. Linkin is no name for a girl, but when you have a music obsessed dad, and a harassed mom who basically just points at you when she needs something, names get wonky. That’s another thing. My family. Most people, it’s: Mom, Dad, 2.2 kids. With me, try Mom, Dad, seven or eight kids. Each with a psychotic name. There’s me, Linkin, then my twin bro for instance, Vivaldi. How weird does it go? It’s not pretty. At least the house is big, or huge. Each kid has a room to him or herself, then the massive living room, dining room, kitchen ect. Then the expectations. I get the, “OMG Your dad’s rich and famous. What do you do for fun? Ballet? Still life?” Neither. I could be what you call a rogue. Outcasted. What I do, is boarding at the park, terrorizing the cheerleaders, you know, non-normal stuff. If I EVER let loose what I really want, I’d never live it down. I suppose, the hardcore look I put on, isn’t really what I’m like. But I can’t let that loose. Ever. I’m sure that no one else would force this upon herself, but I need, to be different. For some unknown reason. I don’t want to blend in, this is the only way I know…

Mark’s POV

            Heck, I live in a backwards world. Literally. My Dad and Mom are divorced, somewhere along the line I joined a gang, my step Mom has this idyllic son, who in my personal opinion is a wussy mommas boy, my Dad lets the tyrant (that my S mom) take over the household, my real Mom has a new creepy boyfriend every month, and I; I wish I could show what cloth I’m really cut of. I don’t want, to be what I am. What I really am, is something that just doesn’t fit into my life. My life of wierdness. Of junk, sorrow, pain, tears. Nothing works for me. No one should ever have to endure what I do. Or feel what I feel. How. How I wish it were all different. That I didn’t have to be tough twenty-four/seven. But I do. That my parents had a lick of sense in relationships. But they don’t. I am what I’m not, and want what I cannot be. That’s life though. Hiding evermore. Burning away any sympathy for yourself. At least, that’s what is true for me.