Rebel Without A Clue
He carefully applied the thick black eyeliner as his doting mother brought him a cheese sandwich. She asked him if he needed anything from the shops and inside he silently cursed her for loving him. How dare she and his father not have the good grace to fight like the other kids’ parents?
He looked up at the over-sized poster of Kurt Cobain on his wall and thought to himself that Kurt would understand. Kurt knew pain just like he did. Of course, his pain was different, his pain was the terrible ennui brought on by being given everything he’d ever wanted. Didn’t his parents understand that this loving, secure home brought him such misery?
He carefully styled his jet black, dyed hair, which his mother had so kindly dyed for him the week before. He pulled the fringe down over one eye, knowing that it made him look so different from everyone else, from all the sheep with their slavish devotion to pop music and the latest fashion trends.
He turned off his state of the art Sony stereo, bringing My Chemical Romance to a sudden halt, and put on his black, faux-military jacket. It felt good to be an individual, to not wear the “uniform” of the typical teen. No t-shirt and jeans for him.
He descended the stairs of the three bedroom, semi-detached suburban house he shared with his parents and younger sister, and headed toward the front door.
“You’re looking smart,” his mother commented, “why are you dressed like that?”
“Because I’m a rebel, mum,” he attempted to snarl.
“What are you rebelling against?” she wondered.
He stared back at her, his expression blank.