Read Online Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway by Cherie Currie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cherie Currie
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hair fall to the bathroom floor, little blond tufts, little amputated parts of myself. Did I feel sad? Happy? I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I felt, apart from angry. I felt very angry, but I suppose I had always felt angry.
Snip.
Snip.
I felt hate. Hate is a powerful word; I liked the way it felt on my tongue. Hate. It’s a hard word, like a punch to the mouth. It leaves a taste of copper in there after you say it the right way. HATE.
I thought about the blood that drip-dripped down my legs, and the deep, searing pain Derek left behind. Oh God, he hurt me. He hurt me real bad.
Snip.
Off came another lock.
Derek liked them young, young and fresh. That’s what he told me. That’s why he told me he was doing it. Young and fresh. Just like I was. Just like I was before that night.
When Marie found me and I told her what happened, we made a decision not to tell Mom. Mom didn’t even know about Derek, and how could I talk about something like this with my mother? And even if we called the cops, I knew what Derek would say—that I had let him into the bedroom. If a girl lets a guy into a bedroom, then everybody knows that she was asking for it. Right? The only thing I could think of that was even worse than what just happened to me was the idea of everybody knowing about it. I could just imagine what they’d say, what they’d whisper about me behind my back. No, this had to be our secret. My secret. I decided that I would go to the grave without ever telling another living soul about what happened with Derek.
In the weeks that followed the rape, I would discover that Derek had not only taken my virginity, he’d also left me a memento—a fucking infection. My mom had to take me to the doctor, which was a totally embarrassing experience. She never asked how I got it; I guess she was trying to be all cool and modern or something. Of course, I never told her what had happened.
But that was all still to come. That day I’d made a decision. That day I’d decided that I wasn’t going to be told what to do anymore, and that nobody was going to just take what they wanted from me. That day I’d realized that there are only two types of people in this world—the people who do the DOING, and the people who have stuff done to them. I knew which I wanted to be.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with Mom’s sharp, shiny scissors in my hand, I took another strand of hair and placed it between the blades.
Snip.
I knew that when I walked into school the next day, they were all going to know how I felt. They were all going to feel the hatred radiating out from me. Good. Fuck ’em! I wanted to take this hate that was inside of me and shove it down their fucking throats. Make them choke on it.
As the pile of hair on the floor grew bigger and bigger, I found myself feeling stronger and stronger. When I walked into a room from this moment on, everyone was going to know that Cherie Currie was here. All of the Winnie the Wolfs of this world, all the Dereks of this world, all of the kids in school who thought they were tough . . . All of the jocks and the snobs and the dweebs! I wanted them to fear me, to know that you do not fuck with Cherie.
No more wimpy surfer Valley girl.
No more pretending.
If I was going to be the glitter queen at night, then that’s what I’d be during the day as well. No more trying to fit in: if they didn’t like it . . . tough shit.
Snip.
If they hated it, good! If they laughed, I didn’t care. I’d give them more. If they thought David Bowie was a faggot and a weirdo, good. I’d be so fucking weird they won’t know what hit them. They were gonna get all of the hatred I felt inside shoved right in their stupid faces.
Snip.
Snip.
I looked into the mirror. I had done a fine job. Ugly, beautiful, just like David Bowie. I felt exhausted, like a great weight was lifted right off of me. Now all I
Snip.
Snip.
I felt hate. Hate is a powerful word; I liked the way it felt on my tongue. Hate. It’s a hard word, like a punch to the mouth. It leaves a taste of copper in there after you say it the right way. HATE.
I thought about the blood that drip-dripped down my legs, and the deep, searing pain Derek left behind. Oh God, he hurt me. He hurt me real bad.
Snip.
Off came another lock.
Derek liked them young, young and fresh. That’s what he told me. That’s why he told me he was doing it. Young and fresh. Just like I was. Just like I was before that night.
When Marie found me and I told her what happened, we made a decision not to tell Mom. Mom didn’t even know about Derek, and how could I talk about something like this with my mother? And even if we called the cops, I knew what Derek would say—that I had let him into the bedroom. If a girl lets a guy into a bedroom, then everybody knows that she was asking for it. Right? The only thing I could think of that was even worse than what just happened to me was the idea of everybody knowing about it. I could just imagine what they’d say, what they’d whisper about me behind my back. No, this had to be our secret. My secret. I decided that I would go to the grave without ever telling another living soul about what happened with Derek.
In the weeks that followed the rape, I would discover that Derek had not only taken my virginity, he’d also left me a memento—a fucking infection. My mom had to take me to the doctor, which was a totally embarrassing experience. She never asked how I got it; I guess she was trying to be all cool and modern or something. Of course, I never told her what had happened.
But that was all still to come. That day I’d made a decision. That day I’d decided that I wasn’t going to be told what to do anymore, and that nobody was going to just take what they wanted from me. That day I’d realized that there are only two types of people in this world—the people who do the DOING, and the people who have stuff done to them. I knew which I wanted to be.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with Mom’s sharp, shiny scissors in my hand, I took another strand of hair and placed it between the blades.
Snip.
I knew that when I walked into school the next day, they were all going to know how I felt. They were all going to feel the hatred radiating out from me. Good. Fuck ’em! I wanted to take this hate that was inside of me and shove it down their fucking throats. Make them choke on it.
As the pile of hair on the floor grew bigger and bigger, I found myself feeling stronger and stronger. When I walked into a room from this moment on, everyone was going to know that Cherie Currie was here. All of the Winnie the Wolfs of this world, all the Dereks of this world, all of the kids in school who thought they were tough . . . All of the jocks and the snobs and the dweebs! I wanted them to fear me, to know that you do not fuck with Cherie.
No more wimpy surfer Valley girl.
No more pretending.
If I was going to be the glitter queen at night, then that’s what I’d be during the day as well. No more trying to fit in: if they didn’t like it . . . tough shit.
Snip.
If they hated it, good! If they laughed, I didn’t care. I’d give them more. If they thought David Bowie was a faggot and a weirdo, good. I’d be so fucking weird they won’t know what hit them. They were gonna get all of the hatred I felt inside shoved right in their stupid faces.
Snip.
Snip.
I looked into the mirror. I had done a fine job. Ugly, beautiful, just like David Bowie. I felt exhausted, like a great weight was lifted right off of me. Now all I
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