Chapter 1: Pleasantville, FL

Chapter 1: Pleasantville, FL

            A bright shining sun shone upon the rows of pastel-colored rectangular houses known as Pleasantville, Florida. My hometown was much more dark and macabre. In Massachusetts, the sun hardly ever shone, especially in wintertime. In many people’s minds, Pleasantville sounds nice, sweet and very happy. I, on the other hand wanted to slap the smiles off of all my neighbors’ faces.

            Watching every family as I walked into my house, I was almost repulsed. Everyone was wearing preppy clothing. Their shirts were pastels. Their pants were khaki. Everyone wore a sweater around their shoulders too, something that matched their shirts. People were watering their lawns or trimming their hedges. They did normal things. Yet, I couldn’t stand to watch them. Their smiles must’ve scared me.

            When I walked inside, our house was empty. The walls were white in every room. The floor was tile in the kitchen and the bathrooms; carpet in the living room, the den and my room; and wood in all the others. The eclectic flooring drove me insane. Pick one! The bathroom and kitchen can be tile and then carpet in the bedrooms, but the kitchen and the living room were stuck together so there was an obvious jump between floor types.

            I didn’t mean to go all interior designer on you. My name is Roxanne Atkins. My nickname is Annie. I am bit macabre in my nature, but I can’t help it. Compared to everyone in this goodie two shoes town, I am depressing.

            I strolled into my room. It was on the second floor, it had black carpeting. The walls were ready to have black paint strewn across them. The room was meant to be a spare, but I wasn’t going to go to sleep in a room without carpet. My parents were just about to come in with my bed, or mattress at least so I had somewhere to sleep. But it was official nonetheless that the white paint would not be there at the end of the week.

            That day was the worst. My parents insisted on going door to door, introducing us to everyone. I just stood in the back, allowing my parents to converse and beam smiling faces at our new neighbors.   Until, I saw the house at the end of the street. It was black, tall, and it had a Gothic style as opposed to Barbie’s dream house. I saw rusty, tall black gates protecting it. I glanced at my parents, they were obviously interested in what came out of this neighbor’s mouth, so was my younger sister, Hannah. They had a son named Marc that she was really enjoying being around. So, I snuck out, bound for the Gothic home.