LOVESTRUCK is a novel that takes romance and twists it until it is unsettling, violent, suspenseful, thrilling, and downright frightening. LOVESTRUCK follows the mentally ill and very obsessive protagonist, Clara Graves, in her quest to earn her sweetheart's love, doing whatever it takes to have him all to herself. She's never felt true love before, and she learns how amazing it feels when she meets her sweetheart, Cleo. Murder, sabotage, and betrayal are not out of the picture, as Clara will do whatever she has to in order to keep Cleo safe from a suspected assassin, who could be anybody, even someone else at school. But Clara isn't the best at her job, no matter how sneaky and deceptive she thinks she is. A rival made a deal with a supernatural entity and has seen what is coming in the near future. Most importantly, they've seen what Clara has done, and no matter how nihilistic and hopeless this rival is, they will put their all into stopping Clara from accomplishing her goals. But why stop her? Clara only wants Cleo's love, right? Something sinister is working inside Clara, and the rival sees the power she has inside her soul.
Patient diagnosis: Extremely anomalous Obsessive Love Disorder (OLD) case, possibility of Bipolar disorder, possibility of sociopathy, and complicated anger management issues. Watch out and be wary of the growing, benevolent HATRED magic forming within the subject. Watch her eyes. They will be the first sign that something is wrong, and you will know when you see her eyes turn fully black, like a demon’s eyes. Odd naturally-occurring eye colors, such as Clara’s dark gold-yellow, is a sign that her soul is powerful.
(SHOW ONLY TO PARENTS!)
Diagnosis verified by Dr. (Colonel) Zeddania Greene and Junior Agent Sasha Blascovitz of the KGB–IDAL Division.
Communication of redacted information between J.A. Sasha B. and the patient is strictly prohibited. Breaking this code will result in a full memory wipe and excommunication from IDAL.
At the Mirror’s request, J.A. Sasha B. is to be instituted as the patient’s friend to attempt and contain her emotions while also keeping an eye on the subject to determine when the patient may snap and how to subdue her without harm.
Date of initial report: May 29, 1998.
Other patient information verified as of August 6, 2001 (most recent birthday): Age: 16. Sex: F. Date of Birth: August 6, 1986. Current Medication: none. Behavioral Improvements: 0%.
Patient name: Clara Graves
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Monday, September 7, 2001, 6:30 a.m.
My shoes clop across the pavement through the local Texaco’s parking lot and toward the storefront inside the gas station. It’s on Main Street, two blocks from my home and about four blocks from school. Main Street is all this town has to offer; it has very little to bring to the table. What else would you expect from a tiny farm village in the middle of Kansas?
The sun is low in the sky and has barely risen over the horizon. A cool breeze blows into town, chilling the warm air. I wear a relaxed frown, not really feeling happy or sad, just feeling like I exist. Everybody knows that feeling, I’m sure of it, but nobody would know it better than I. Suddenly, an African-American boy who appears to be much younger than me steps out into my path from his position against the section of wall right beside the doors. Startled, I stop abruptly out of timidness, frightened of what this strange action could mean.
Why is this little kid stopping me? I’ve seen him around before. He loiters around town all the time and never really speaks to anyone and occasionally has a soda. I recall that his name is Arnold, but I don’t remember unimportant people who don’t care about me. Today, he must have a different intent than simply meandering about because he opens his mouth to speak to me.
In a shaky voice, the little boy asks, “Hi. Uh, what’s your name?”
Still confused, I use caution when telling the kid what he wants to hear. “I don’t like sharing my name with strangers. But for you, I’ll make a small exception since I doubt I’ll ever talk to you again. My name is Clara Graves. Who might you be?”
Sounding intimidating is the best way to avoid physical confrontation. The boy is scared by the mention of my last name, and his eyes go wide. I am pleased that his skittish behavior is increasing above my levels, so I press my question harder when asking, “Hmm? Is my name familiar to you or something? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Despite the fact that this has gone how I wished, it feels wrong that he’s as scared of me as he makes out to be just because I spoke.
The boy, who is wearing a white shirt and blue jeans with peeling white sneakers, at first looked like he was going to flirt with me, but once I started talking, he seemed scared for no real reason. I scowl at him and with malice in my voice, I tell him, “Ugh, if you’re not going to talk, then get out of my way!” I rudely shove past the boy before muttering to myself under my breath, “Even people who never talk to me are scared of me for no reason…”
What’s important is that I get to school on time so I can see Sasha. She can cheer me up. Her friends all hang around me, but when it comes to being truly devoted to me, they all act like fake friends, never failing to leave me for their other friends when given the opportunity. I hate it when they abandon me. What I really want is someone to pay attention to me—not even my parents can fulfill this role. They care about me the least of anyone I know. I’m so lonely; why can’t anyone be my friend?
My fake friends say I’m delirious and just think that they leave me, but I don’t believe them. It’s clear when someone doesn’t like me or pretends to like me. At least my best friend who hails from Russia, Sasha, is different. She cares because she understands me. She wants to play with me and always prioritizes me over her other pals. That’s why she’s my best friend! The others never cared about me anyway; why do I even bother with them? Honestly, I shouldn’t.
Now even less motivated to start my day than before, I head inside the Texaco to purchase a bag of chips; something I had planned for myself. I proceed through the sliding doors. The cashier doesn’t greet me. As usual, no one notices me, and when they do, they all hate me or only pretend to like me. Yet the only thing unlikable about me is how overly annoyed I get when someone does something irritating—it leads to fights that could have been avoided. People say I shouldn’t punch someone over stealing a single one of my gummy worms. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.
I make my way over to the short aisle of chips. What brand should I buy? I deserve a treat for getting eighty-nine percent right on the first math quiz of the year, good for a B+. I hate math. It is very odd that I did so preposterously well because I barely passed my freshman year finals in Algebra 1 with only a C-. I study all the different brands of chips, but even then, nothing sounds appealing. Instead of the chips I like, there are some distasteful barbecue chips and bags of disgusting, jerky-flavored pretzels. I grunt in frustration and take a few steps into the next aisle—the candy aisle.
There should be something I enjoy over here. My eyes fall on all sorts of candies— gummy worms, suckers, sour treats. None of those are good. Do they have any chocolate? Nope, of course they don’t. My eyes reach the empty shelves where the chocolate should be, and disappointment fills me. I was really looking forward to a sweet snack this morning. Life always finds a way to kick me in my nonexistent balls.
Ugh, I should at least buy myself something. Maybe a drink will suffice instead. Undecided, I walk myself out of the aisle when my backpack slides off my shoulders slightly. I hoist it back up and tighten the straps just enough. Irritatingly, I feel something else tugging at my backpack and turn around to see what it is. Perhaps it’s caught on something. Typical.
When I turn around, however, I instead see the boy who approached me just moments ago. He was reaching into my backpack and attempting to steal from me. Does he really think he is sneaky?
(Is he looking to get beat to a bloody pulp? Make him regret trying to steal from you.) Apparently, he is looking to get beat up. But please, strange voice, I don’t need your help thinking.
(Why not? I can offer so much advice to you, Clara.) I wouldn’t call your little interruptions ‘advice.’ Please shut up.
My initial anger makes me shove the boy back into the shelf and yell at the thief, “Brat! Get away from me!”
The boy stumbles into the shelf with a crashing thud, knocking his arm into one of the hooks that hangs the bags of candy. He quickly raises his hands halfway to his chest in surrender. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” he mumbles.
“Didn’t mean to what?” I yell at him. “Reach your hand into my backpack?” The cashier glances up at our discord but obviously isn’t interested in helping one bit. The irritating little boy backs off, holding his arm; it must have hurt. That’s a shame. Maybe he shouldn’t have done what he did. He’s lucky I didn’t hit him harder or in the face.
Once again, I turn away from the boy, this time faster. Now I just want to leave this dumb gas station. Nothing good ever happens here. I’ll just see if I can buy candy at school—there’s always an elementary school kid trying to sell something for a quick buck.
I take a detour around the aisle, avoiding the boy. He shows no interest in me any longer, plainly gazing off into space while holding his presumably hurt arm. My eyes are fixed on him but not in a good way. Now I know why he stopped me before. Without any more trouble, I exit the sliding doors of the gas station and turn left through someone’s open yard in the direction of the school building.
The neighborhood I live in is nice; all the houses are small but kept up and nice. I live near the edge of my town, Klemmington, a village of barely seven hundred residents in the middle of nowhere in Plains-country Kansas. Sadly, I have to walk through the entire town to get to the school complex because my parents just had to live as far away from the school as possible while still forcing me to walk. Well, it’s not really a terrible walk. I just feel like they don’t care about me or listen to me, so I’m venting about it. Nonetheless, I can’t wait until I get my license—if my parents ever take me down to Wichita to take my driving test. They only think of themselves, unless it’s to punish me for something so irrelevant that you wouldn’t even consider grounding your child over. Two years ago, they grounded me to my room for a whole week and took away my phone because I “went out too much” that week.
I have no clue why Mom and Dad chose to live in the house where we live. Then again, I don’t know why I put up with their bullshit in the first place. My life can be described in three words: lonely, abandoned, and neglected. On the bright side, I wore my nicer and comfier clothes today: my white basketball shoes that I usually only wear during the winter and white socks that match my shoes. I am unsure of how Sasha will like my skirt today, but it’s one of my favorites. I am always too timid about showing my legs off at school, so I never wear it there. The fabric is yellow, and it goes well with my pretty green button-up shirt as well as my golden yellow eyes. I usually only wear this skirt on special occasions, though today is far from a special occasion.
I like to keep my brown hair short, never letting it grow too long. When it gets about nine inches past my shoulders, I trim it back to three inches. I just had it cut a few days ago, so it’s still relatively short. But that’s not it—there’s still more to my outfit. When my hair is short, I don this cute flower tiara I love to wear. The flowers are fake—I don’t know how they would be alive if they were real—but they’re an eye-catching deep yellow and match the cutesy outfit I’m wearing. It’d be the perfect outfit for a date. If only I had one. I’m the only student in the entire high school who hasn’t dated anyone, not counting the other weird kid, Reid. Even I don’t understand him, but that’s because he purposefully avoids people—the same people who avoid me. Maybe we should get together…?
I’m looking good today; I just know it. People seldom take even five seconds out of their day for their eyes to stray my way, but today is different because I catch some motorists glancing at me from inside their cars. Usually, I never think highly of myself, but my outfit is too cute for even me to ignore! People will like me today. Or am I being overly optimistic? People only talk to me when it benefits them.
I reach a fence on the other side of the yard I was crossing and stop because I remember to zip my backpack up, securing my items. Once it’s zipped, I grip the metal links on the fence and climb up and over the neck-high barrier. Just as I’m about to clear the top, I snag my elbow on a sharp, loose wire. After the startling pinprick, I lose my grip and tumble down to the other side.
“Oof!” I land on my stomach, smacking my chest against the chilly, dew-soaked grass. I lay there for a few seconds with a throbbing pain in my forearm. I have never been one to cry, so I suck it up.
(Very graceful landing, Clara.) Sometimes I wish I could punch you in the nose.
(Touche.) At least we agree on something.
Resisting the minor pain, I plant my hands on the ground and push myself to my feet. My elbow is bleeding now—not very much, but I definitely cut myself on the fence. Ouch! Can this day get worse? Why do I get hurt so much? I don’t deserve this.
I dust myself off, angered by the sharp fence and the sarcastic voice I am accustomed to hear whenever it has something to comment on. I slowly make my way to the sidewalk this time. I prefer to avoid other people on the sidewalks, but I don’t want to ruin my nice outfit by falling in some mud or bleeding all over myself. I venture over to a gap in between two homes and make it back to the sidewalk without dirtying my outfit. I use the path to make my way to school, holding a hand over the small fresh cut.
I have a feeling that today is going to finally be the day that will break me, seeing how terribly it’s going already. First, a kindergartener attempts to rob me, and now I cut myself in a precarious spot. Glorious.
The sidewalks are all old and cracked. My head droops low, and my hand stays over the tiny cut on my arm while I meander along, sometimes drifting too near to the buildings or almost into the road. It’s weird being out earlier than my usual 8:20. Leaving so late makes me tardy, but more people are out moving around by then. Today, it’s quiet and peaceful. Just how I like it.
On my left is the Klemmington Creamery, our local ice cream parlor. ‘Creamery’ sounds weird to me, so I never call the place by its true name. Also, ice cream sucks, so I never go there unless Sasha drags me with her. The storefront is painted in light-blue and white stripes that run vertically up the building, matched by an identical awning over the front. The building has big, wide windows with vinyl stickers of customers’ flavor favorites plastered on them. One is rocky road, and of course, the other one is the Superman. As I stated before, there isn’t much here. Our ice cream parlor is the only interesting, frequented locale in town besides the café and the general store. And it’s pretty general…
I spend lots of time at the café. And ‘Café’ is its name because that’s the only word on the sign out front: Café. The building is delicate and antique as it’s one of the first buildings in town—a former speakeasy. It was built as a large Victorian home to remain inconspicuous to any passerby’s curious eyes. The walls are blue, and the windows are few, but once it was converted from a speakeasy to a café, many windows were added. The spacey inside is just like any restaurant. It’s open and decorated, with the main counter and serving area highlighted by a glamorous, 150-year-old bar counter. The etchings of lions and elephants on the backboard behind all the beer taps delight me every time I look at them.
My head is raised when I pass my favorite street in town, Verdun Street, because it’s Sasha’s street. Her family’s manor resides at the end of the street, a looming giant of unmatched fame. It used to be a plantation, made of marble, brick, and oak. But as you know, slavery is illegal, so that operation ended many decades before our time. There are no shortages of additions to the home because Sasha’s parents have excess money, unlike most village residents. They can spend it on whatever vanities they want. I’m lucky to be one of the Blascovitz’s family friends.
On my right stands a tall Lutheran church, plain and white on the outside with none of the extravagant features of a typical Catholic church. There’s a steeple with a cross atop the point, cresting down to a simple roof with black shingles. The building is essentially a rectangular house, just large enough for the sanctuary and two bathrooms. Double doors welcome all into the building with the name of the church plastered above on a plaque: “Klemmington Area Lutheran Church of God—All are Welcome.” I have never figured out why my parents never go to church or why they never let me go either, even when Sasha asked me to go with her. They say that church ‘softens’ people too much. I disagree, as many church-goers I know can be hard and gritty at times. It can’t be their real reason, but I doubt I’ll ever know because they tell me nothing.
Just past the church is the building that houses our police station and town hall. Inside the station is a place for cops to arm themselves and a single-cell jail for holding detainees before they’re transported to prison. I’ve been inside, only because my dad’s a cop and he had to bring me in to detain me one day after I broke someone’s nose—not in self-defense. The victim didn’t press charges; my dad just did it of his own accord. He didn’t do any yelling; he just locked me in the cell and left me alone for the night. It was horrible to be in there, and I don’t want to talk about how angry I was. If the walls weren’t made of stone, I would have punched so many holes in them!
That’s the last landmark before school. I’m exhausted, and my day has only just begun. A brittle anger rises. I have never thought about giving up before, but it all seems so useless now. Hollow feelings and anger are all I’ve ever known. Mostly anger, but the hollowness is what kills me. I’m incomplete, I know it. Something is missing in my brain; something vital that should be there isn’t. I’ve gone to hell and back, and I’ve been through emotionally dark places no teenager should be, all because of my parents—the people who are supposed to love me and take care of me. The only thing that would make it worse is if my parents were abusive. Even if they abandoned me, it would be better. I can get by on my own because I’ve done that while they’ve been here. Nothing would change.
Nothing.