I was about to shoot myself in the throat. Not in chest, or the head, or the face, or even the mouth. I was going to put a bullet straight through my goddamn throat. I had no ideas why, but the decision didn't require a lot of thought. It had been six hours and the only thing I'd done, related to schoolwork, was stare blankly at the stupid little blinking cursor on my surprisingly wordless Microsoft Word document. The rest of my 360 minutes of designated "learning time" had been spent making soft serve, driving down to the gas station for one of those magic flavored snow drinks, and working out a deal with the Yakuza to get the new Pokémon game four months before its actual release. My mother would probably lecture at me about wasting her vast wealth without her approval, but after naming me Czarina Schuben I figure I'm entitled to at least a small portion of her insane billionaire status. That wasn't really the point at the moment; however, the thought consuming me was more along the lines of how and where I was going to shoot myself in the throat.

I figured, if I was going for a truly high quality death, there was nothing better than through the jugular vein and out the other side. But, then again, I could always go for the mainstream shoot-through-the-mouth-with-a-high-caliber-gun-and-send-brain-and-skull-bits-flying-everywhere death. I was such a fucking idiot. Instead of paying some shred of attention to my insanely important task, I was contemplating suicide that I'd never have the balls to commit. However, drifty thoughts and incoherence tend to go along with marijuana. I won't lie and say I'm not a drug user. People are all like "Oh smoking a blunt isn't doing drugs." even though everybody knows pot is illegal for a reason. At least that's my philosophy, but I'm a dumbass so we can just leave it at that. I could feel my soul starting to burn inside my chest, probably due to the work I was about to have to undertake, and to avoid eternal damnation I pushed myself away from the library computer I had glared at stupidly for a countless amount of time. My thoughts got even less coherent with the lack of a point of interest.

"Miss... Compton? Uh... Have a seat please." I gave my vice principal a blank, slotted eye, stare. He looked amazingly concerned, but not enough to actually get off his fat ass and call the cops for my obviously higher than Jesus state. He hadn't reported me for my hundreds of truancies, he hadn't reported me for selling serious drugs to other students, and he hadn't even called me into his office when I slapped his daughter in the face. Not that I had any issue with that, I just felt like brutally criticizing the way he worked. Or maybe I just felt really high, who could tell? But that wasn't the point at the moment; the issue at hand was my grades. They weren't just "Oh, this poor girl is stupid but still trying." grades, they were "Holy fuck this child is an idiot with no ambition who will ultimately destroy the world by starting an accidental nuclear war with Russia." or at least that was how the rest of the world saw it.

I didn't have any issue with how they saw my future other than their whole Russia thing. I might start a nuclear war with Canada, I know what you're thinking but believe me they have been far too quiet for far too long the era of the bloody maple leaf is coming sooner than you may think; it's red for a reason. I lived in Russia for ten years, I was born there, and Russia loved me. But, then again, my family ran the single largest drug cartel in the country so the people may have been just a little sour towards us. Not the junkies though! Drug addicts love us. It was at about this point that I realized my vice principal had delivered his entire speech without me even hearing him. Apparently, I'd also sat down in his baby vomit chartreuse you're-in-deep-shit chair.

"So... Yeah. Good chat, alright! I'll see you on the flip side, right bro?" I could see the words coming out of my mouth at the moment, which was why I chose such annoyingly horrible ones. The vice principal gave me disappointed glare. I sat back down in the you're-in-deep-shit chair, feeling like I was pretty much in deep shit.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you, Cz... A... Rrr... Compton?" he couldn't pronounce my real name. I took offense to that. But only for about three seconds because I remembered I couldn't either. Not even when I was sober. I was downright scared to say it for fear I would end up summoning an ancient Indian spirit from the beyond the grave or an astral beast that would destroy the world. But the creepiest thing about my principal experience was that he decided using my nickname was the best choice of action. All freaky thoughts about him stalking me aside, how did he even know what kids called me? And it was really only one class that granted me my nickname when I walked into sixth period and rapped 'Straight Outta Compton' in Russian for no apparent reason.

I was suddenly very concerned about my home security. And then very concerned about the panda population. Two things became very apparent after that thought. One; I should have totally adopted a pet panda, and two; I was really, really, really high. The vice principal cleared his throat so loudly two mountains in Alaska fell to their demise, crushing poor Tuktuk the eskimo and his sexy wife, Melinda Rodriguez. It took me a shameful minute to realize that was meant to call me to attention and not crush the dreams of an innocent Inuit and his attractive Hispanic wife. My bloodshot eyes traveled back up to the furious vice principal. Apparently I'd been staring at the ground and drooling for quite a while now. I wiped dried saliva off my chin with the sleeve of my black turtleneck. Not the best idea I'd had in the past seventeen years. Not the best by a long shot according to the expression on Mr. Vice Principal's face. He began to repeat what I'd missed over the past few hours,

"Compton, you're grades suck cock. Pardon my language, but it's the simple truth. There is absolutely no possibility of actually finishing high school this year. Unless you do a little something for us." the glorious buzz traveling through my mind dissipated immediately. He continued speaking,

"First, you'll make a three thousand dollar donation of money you have earned with the help of nobody else. Second, you'll come to school for at least six consecutive weeks. And third, you will make-up every single test and every last paper you failed to turn in from your freshman year to your senior year. All of these requirements must be met before summer vacation begins, meaning you've got ninety days to finish all of your work, donate all of your money, and come to school for thirty days with no break. If these tasks are not completed within the slotted time, I will fail you just before I turn you over to the police for both drug possession and truancy. Do we have a deal?"

And the moment I said yes was the moment I became extremely tempted to shoot myself in the throat and end my terrible life. Vice Principal Whatever-The-Fuck-His-Name-Is too me to get my ass up to the library and talk to the guy who worked there. Apparently, I would have to do the unthinkable for this test. I would have to read. I hadn't read in almost four years, I didn't think it mattered. I'd been able to pass up until now; common sense normally sort of took over and allowed me to finish most of my assignments with sort-of passing grades. But everyone was taking it so easily as a senior I said "Why the fuck not?" and ended up skipping almost every day of school since the beginning of the year. I had managed to turn in almost all my homework for classes like math and science and all that but there were two subjects that literally made me die inside. History and English. The way the teachers tried to coincide with each other and make on big mass of boring information so large it could force even the strongest man to take his own life. And that wasn't even the worst of it.

Just thinking about history made me want to curl up into a ball and decompose into simple nothingness. It was the only class in which you could literally DIE of boredom. I put my thin legs up on the side of the table and pushed off, utilizing the full potential of my wonderful spinny chair to launch me off into a world excitement. This place was better known as The World Devoid of History and English. But the second I rammed into a bookcase and slammed my not-so-very-sexy face into the floor I was flung back to reality. Unfortunately, it seemed as though I'd brought a creature back from the world of excitement because just in front of my now even less sexy face a pair of neon, argyle socks was covering and exposed set of wrinkly, hairy, old man knees.

To avoid catching the full frontal view, which I assumed could easily be seen just up the leg of the old man's pink, plaid shorts, I threw myself at the bookshelf now smeared lightly with my very own nose blood. Above the argyle socks and plaid shorts was an extremely tight purple and black striped shirt, embracing his torso so heavily his man boobs appeared larger than mine. Not that I had much to hold my own against with two stunningly, impressively, positively, real A-cups. It was honestly a wonder that I had any breasts at all. However, with the appearance of this strange thing occurring just before me, my tiny titties were not exactly what I was focused on.

"Eh-heh! You're the stupid girl! Come on; follow me to your textbooks! I know you idiots can't read too well, but give it a go! You can claim to be from another country all you want, all you Russians are good for is nuclear weaponry and thick eyebrows! Better than them French though! All they can do is run away!" I should have called the fashion police on him right then and there. Not just poorly dressed but racist too. What a winner of a librarian we picked! He was probably duel wielding confederate flags, judging by his southern accent. I had to admit, he had a voice that would put an old forty-niner's to shame. And his racial slurs were also pretty accurate. I'd been to France once on vacation. I ended up demolishing the flag of Norway and vowing that, for as long as I remained alive, I would never travel back to such a place again.

Even though every bone in my body was screaming "It's a trap, you dumbass! Get outta here!" I continued following crazy old guy through our insanely expansive library. That was what you got when you went to the richest school in the country. Thank my crazy, drug selling, Russian, mob boss father for all the money he made us before getting thrown off a rooftop. Not that he died from that, he actually lived through it twice with no real health issues, too. He died via polar bear attack. No mob connection whatsoever, just an unfortunate ice fishing incident. Now my mom just sort of travels the world out of boredom while I hang out here until I finish high school. Unfortunately, I might die before that's ever achieved. I want to die before that's ever achieved. I'll die before I write anything positive about Norway. NEVER WILL THIS OCCUR.

My thoughts changed from rampant Norway hatred to concerned and frenzied paranoia about where I was headed. We appeared to be heading straight down that hole people got kicked into in Sparta for declaring that something was madness. All pot brained Compton thoughts aside, it really was a hole in the middle of the library with a staircase traveling down it and a sign that said 'Restricted: entrance will sell your soul to Satan.' I was questioning more than the old man's racism and fashion sense by this point. Not like I was in any position to judge someone's sanity. And while I began to contemplate more and more about just what the hole was for, I failed to realize I was being dragged into it. Literally dragged. He had just grabbed my collar and forced me into his hole. Please ignore how inappropriate that sounded. I noticed a set of torches appear on the wall as we climbed deeper and deeper, illuminating this insanely creepy rape dungeon. He grabbed an unlit stick off the wall and smiled. Crazy Old Man Guy snapped his fingers, continuing to stare at the oily cloth covering the wood he held. I opened my mouth to make a hilarious and meticulously thought out joke, because we all know I think things out so well, but clamped it shut as the fabric ignited.

And just like that he went from Crazy Old Man Guy to Jesus Lord of Flame. Lord be praised! My adventures as an African American preacher ended abruptly as I was plucked off the ground by my collar and thrown down uneven stone steps into total darkness. I felt like I was living in a crudely made horror film. Fortunately enough for this girl, the lights weren't flickering on and off which meant Becky was going to get whacked first. In fact, the lights were pretty well done. Eco-friendly too. Praise Jesus Lord of Flame! I picked myself off the floor and glanced at the surroundings. We had entered a chasm of sorts that held nothing but a couple of bookshelves and a few light bulbs, yet it stunk of mildew and rotting flesh. I would have questioned the rotting meat scent a little more had I not been so busy glaring at the boring collection of stories. None of them seemed to stand out, but there was one shelf that had been made to draw attention.

It was filled to the brim with guides like 'Samantha's Home Cooked Recipes' and touching memoirs such as 'Memories From Beyond Me' but none of them were seated on the back of a golden eagle. Yes, an eagle book stand forged entirely from gold. And the collection of mold dusted pages seated on it held the glorious name 'Spiny Future'. No, wait. That wasn't right. I dusted off the front cover a little with my already spit soiled sleeve to reveal the true title, 'Spineless History'. Much more climactic I was glad it wasn't a book about the future being full of spine. Or whatever the word spiny meant, I hadn't read in a really long time don't judge me. Jesus Lord of Flame appeared out of nowhere, much like a messiah might I add, and thrust the book into my arms.

"Read this book and complete thine assignments! Do not act like a Spaniard and procrastinate until the last possible second, be anal like the Swiss! Good luck, my disciple." the man disappeared in a plume of flame, never to be seen again! My god was I high, the mold growing in here must've been hallucinogenic or something. Jesus Lord of Flame, or JLF as he shalt now be known, appeared back in about four seconds and led me successfully out of his rape dungeon just in time for me to get the fuck out of there.

XxXxXxX

I unlocked the door to my home without too much excitement. Hallucinogenic mold was fun and all but getting this stupid book was beginning to make me remember that I had about thirty tests to study for and around twenty five enormous reports to complete. And I had the sinking feeling one would include Norway. It was the only country I wished death upon, but no quick painless death. I wanted Norway and all the stupid Norwegians to starve to death as kickass Swedish and Danish Vikings tore down the very fabric of their society! I only knew things about history for the sake of picturing Norway's slow and painful demise. I shoved through the wooden barrier only to be hit by a stench the likes of which hadn't been smelt in years.

It had been months since I cleaned out my refrigerator and the odors of putrefied chicken and spoiled milk were beginning to get to me. I waved it off and pressed forwards. The enormous home that unfolded before me was nothing compared to the ones surrounding it. Our mansion was frowned upon in the East Oak Field district, called an eyesore by some and a piece of shit by others. But it wasn't my fault my mom had intricate tastes. She was the one who had painted the flag of every country, minus Norway which had been mysteriously destroyed with a sharpie as black as the souls of the Norwegians, on the facade of our mansion.

The inside of the house was the real thing our neighbors complained about, however. It was pretty much the poster boy for the show 'Hoarders'. The entire floor plan was covered in a fine layer of dust, dirt or general filth and towers forged of cola and energy drink cans stood high amongst candy wrappers and empty food containers. I threw my book into the corner sharply, lacking any dash of foresight that might have told me I was going to knock over my favorite empty can tower. This assignment was going to kill me. I trudged over and retrieved my reading material; trying to decide whether to snort its hallucinogenic mold or crack its untold riches open. It made more sense to read it before I got high off of it and with that decision made I pulled the cover open before flipping to a random page. And that was when I discovered the book was written in Italian. Fucking perfect. I could speak English and Russian fluently, but I had no grasp of Italian. Plus, Italy was pretty much the most useless country in the world aside from France. I won't even begin to speak about Norway, just to save you people the searing pain of my cruel words. The point in case was that I couldn't speak Italian. But I had to read this book at some point, so I figured I should have given it a little effort.

"Il... Grande reg? Grande regno... D-di? Prussia..." great. I had no idea what I'd just said. Absolutely no clue. And just like that the book went flying back into my now demolished can tower. I slumped over to my kitchen, defeated and discouraged and other synonyms for sad that start with D. A loud clang rang through the first floor of my house. I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find. It just so happened to be my favorite table lamp, the most gorgeous illumination creation in the world of light fixtures. Another clatter shook the foundation of my home. It was coming from my kitchen; it sounded a lot like someone trying to loot someone's home. My home. Nobody pillaged the village of Compton. I crept up to the granite countertop as slowly and as ninja-like as possible. A few booming clanks later I peered over my counter, lamp in hand. There he was. Someone in a navy blue uniform. Someone with white hair and pale skin. Someone with red eyes.

Someone about to get hit in the face with a lamp.

I AM SO GODDAMN SORRY. I had to leave right away for my trip to Europe and then went straight from the airport to Newport Beach with my mom and brother. I had literally ZERO time to write, I got home just todayand wrote my ass off, so please accept my apology in the form of over three thousand words of the new rewrite! I'll have the second chapter up by tuesday, I PROMISE YOU THIS. Oh, and just so you all know, the dirty Hetalia jokes were PLENTIFUL during my trip. Thanks so fucking much for sticking in and reading, again I'm super sorry!

~KC