Oh, shut up. I know—I'm flexing the Spanish way too much. I just learned español—that's French for Spanish. Kidding. Deal with it. I'm multilingual now. I speak English, Spanish, and maybe soon French... if I don't die in this hospital.
Yeah. Spoiler alert. My bad.
Anyway, talking to you guys is kind of making my injuries ache more. You're such a wonderful audience, really. Round of applause.
So. About my suspension. Yep. I definitely got suspended. There's not much you can say to school management when you're caught—wet-handed—shoving a girl's face into a bloody toilet.
The police said there were signs of force. Pressure on her head and shoulder. Honestly, any regular person would've been convicted for assault. Maybe even juvie. But me? Nope.
Miracle? Ehh... You could say that.
Back then, I thought it was some angel at the station who handled my case. I pictured someone kind, calm, probably some no-nonsense lawyer-type who saw my "potential" or whatever. But you won't believe who that "angel" really was.
So, the girl's name? Miranda. Or Misha. Or Mira? I don't know. Something with an M. We weren't exactly besties. She's buried now. God rest her soul. And me? My punishment was to show up at her funeral, look appropriately broken, and act like I cared. That's it. But there was still a suspension record on paper. Well it's better than a criminal charge.
I Just... appeared sad; well convincingly.
Still don't understand why she'd take her own life in such a... revolting way.
But yeah. I cried. Cried like an adult baby who just lost their mama. Real dramatic. Bag-of-onions type tears.
Coming back to school was tough. I mean, how do you walk back into a building where everyone's probably whispering that you're a psychopath? Honestly, all I wanted was to melt into my bed and never face daylight again. Not even my mom could get through to me. But he did.
Yeah. Him.
The so-called "guardian angel" in human form. The one who bailed me out. The one who looked exactly how I imagined he'd look. Tall, kind eyes, voice smooth like caramel—and a poker face that could beat the devil's.
But the real "he" who convinced me to go back? That would be Kai.
He told me, "Hold your head high. People won't just respect you, they'll fear you." Classic Kai. He's not the pep talk kind. He's the "say three words and change your whole mindset" kind of guy. The type that doesn't say much but means every syllable. And this time? He nailed it.
And that was all I needed.
I wasn't just going to return—I was going to transform. Not Super Saiyan 1. Not even 2. Straight to 3. I skipped 2. It's stressful. Saiyan 3 is for the baddies. Period.
That week before school reopened? Most productive week of my entire life. Not academically—calm down, nerds—but in the glow-up department? I was blazing.
I shopped like I was preparing for a runway debut. New wardrobe? Check. New shoes? Check. Spa appointments? Multiple. Got massages like a stressed-out CEO on vacation. I treated my skin like royalty. Facials. Scrubs. Mud wraps. The whole princess package. I practically slept in satin.
And the haircut? Legendary. I personally believe curly hair has more attitude, aura, and sass than straight hair. Straight hair is fine—if you're actually beautiful. But curls? Curls give range. They bounce when you laugh. They frame your face like "I woke up like this" perfection. They warn people.
The week flew by. Before I knew it, Monday slapped me in the face.
D-Day.
Mom tried to wake me, but plot twist—I was already in the shower. No dramatic wake-up today. I'd covered my hair the night before and snuck back to my room like a thief in the night. The reveal had to be perfect.
And yes, it was unfortunate—for her. She thrives off the chaos of watching my eyes fry in daylight like I'm auditioning for a vampire flick. But not today.
I freshened up. Brushed. Flossed. Yes, I flossed. Growth. Did my makeup—for the first time ever, except for that one pageant I flopped in at age eight or ten. YouTube was my makeup mentor. I watched. I learned. I executed.
Foundation? Flawless. Brows? Arch goals. Lashes? Dramatic but not draggy. Lips? Glossed to filth. Eyeshadow? Smokey with just the right shimmer. I didn't come to school—I came to dominate.
I strutted downstairs like I was the season finale.
And what did I find? My parents staring like a stranger had walked in.
"Um... Davina, is that you?" Mom asked, half in awe, half in horror.
"Yeah, Mom. It's me. Little old me," I said, flashing a smug smile.
"Wow, Davina... you look astonishing," my stepdad added, his face doing that awkward combo of pride and confusion. Like, "Is this our daughter or an Instagram influencer who broke in and ate her for breakfast?"
Here's the breakdown:
Black tennis skirt—above the knees, cue Mom's internal scream. Off-shoulder pink crop top. Black bolero to tie it all together. On my legs? Pink leg warmers and black Converse heels. Yes, they exist. Yes, I wore them. I was a vibe. Not cute. Not hot. Not sexy. A vibe.
Hair: frontals dyed pink, rest jet black. Makeup: dark, bold, mysterious. I had to look serious. Confident. Unbothered. I couldn't explain what happened to... M-something. So I just became the fear.
I scarfed down breakfast, ignoring my mom's side-eyes and dramatic sighs, and headed out. Kai took his bike; I drove myself. I needed an entrance. A solo one.
When he saw me? Priceless. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Stunned into silence. He didn't even joke. He just shook his head and said, "You glowed up." That's all. But it was everything.
But this time, he wasn't just being the loyal bestie. Walking in with me came with social perks. Imagine being best friends with a rumored killer—or as I prefer, a serial killer in progress. That's power.
And finally—finally—I got the slow-mo high school hallway walk I always deserved.
People stared. Whispers flew. Phones came out. Girls squinted. Boys froze. Even teachers did a double-take. I kept my face forward, my walk confident, and my soul detached.
I adjusted my voice—somewhere between sassy and dangerous. It stuck. To this day, it's just... me. And I like it that way.
Here's the tea: the "incident" made people fear me, yeah. But more than that? They respected me. I dodged jail time for what could've easily been murder. I cheated death. Then walked back into class like nothing happened.
Iconic.
My transformation worked. And I wasn't done. Because my Sweet Sixteen was coming. And I wasn't about to give my fans a basic party.
"Mi Transformación" wasn't just about clothes, makeup, or fear. It was about change.
How I saw love.
School.
Life.
And yeah—my sexuality.
I was finally who I was meant to be. Not just the quiet girl with brown hair and a nerdy best friend.
No offense, adult Kai. May your slightly annoying soul rest in peace.
But me? A sarcastic, funny, a little confused, sexy, pretty, bold, less naive, and sassy little bitch?
That was who I truly was or still am. Cos I like to believe that if you play a character for too long you get so integrated in the character that you basically become it.
And my Sweet Sixteen?
It slapped.
Don't go anywhere, okay?
Unless you need to pee. Or take a shit.
Because my life?
It's about to get wild.
So sit back. Grab a beer—or three. And follow me down this twisted, haunting, unforgettable memory lane.
Decode what's hiding between the lines... if you dare.
Because my life? My past?
It's a damn mystery.
And if you're lucky enough to stick around...
You just might get the SNYDER CUT.