Tessa Snow had closed down her world with just two earphones. The drums moved her brain cells to jump to the outer limits of her being. Well, the world around her might have given her some sceptic side remarks about that. Or not. There was nothing ordinary about that girl. Her hair had seen better days. Spiky, gleamy, grey. You could see the pink at the bottom of a hair sculpture that could have been adopted from John Lennon and Sinead O’Connor. Let’s look further down. Under a long neck you could have figured out the beginning of a tattoo – if there haven’t been black silk all over it, wide, long at weird places. Somewhere under this silk balloon, there must have been a body. The silk was not without transparency though. Jeans. Washed. Cut. Redyed.
That was not the first impression you would have had of that girl. The first impression would have been – yes, sheer stunned awe. Even with her eyes closed, you could figure out that these eyes would have persuaded you to jump of the Empire State Building, praying that she would have caught you before you were smashed to just a mass of flesh and blood. Possibly provoking the people surrounding this mess to throw up. Not a funny thing to imagine.
Tessa wore a constant annoyed face. This life got seriously on her nerves. She dashed out of her room, pulling the music bubble with her like a shield against the angry voice of her foster mother – or as she liked to call her: the mother of holy motherness. She must have been born with a mirror in her hand, she snored. In a mood of madness she had adopted Tessa as a little baby – because this good-smelling and smiling little one had been as beautiful as her, she had kept telling her friends. “Isn’t she cuuuute?” Tessa remembered being given from hands to hands to hands in an endless circle of admiration. Guess what. She had enough that. The first time she had cut her hair to an undescrible piece of art, her mother, Jane (haha) had given her a speech of two day, to remove this “horrible, painful something on her head”. She had refused by throwing the cereal bowl against the porcelain buddha Jane had acquired during a trip to india (she thought it was funny to put it next to a cross – just to show how open-minded she was). After that, she just received stern glances and hopeful suggestions of improvement. That was an improvement in itself after all.
Today. She would leave today that house of horror and Jane had not the slightest idea of that. The music pushed her outside on the street, to the bus, to school, but her mind was already exploring Paris in Winter.