American Eulogy

A young girl, dressed in punk clothes with dip-dyed hair, looked completely out of place. Surrounding her was nothing short of a mansion. A diamond chandelier twinkled above her, and a soft periwinkle carpet that sighed with every step was laid out below her. She was sprawled out on a large, ornate couch. The most foiling feature in the room, though, was the older man dressed in a suit and tie sitting across from her. The girl looked up at him, her eyes were burning coals. "How does it feel? Does it hurt you as much as it hurts me?" The man didn't answer her, but his grip on the belt he was holding tightened. The girl held up her arms, there were what looked to be burn marks on them. She was standing now. "How do you sleep at night? Do you sleep well, knowing that your little girl is going to grow up a well-disciplined lady? Or do you listen to her cries at night and wonder how you could be such a monster?" The man, still saying nothing, stood up to face the girl. The words that had been boiling in his gut finally spilled out, hurting the girl more than any whip could. "You're right, I can't sleep! Not because of how I teach my children, but because of my children themselves! Can you hear how they talk about us? You walk out in those clothes with that hair, and everyone laughs! I look like the idiot! You make me the idiot of America!" The girl had had enough. She sprinted to her room and grabbed her packed suit case, which had been waiting there for her for weeks. She walked back downstairs, a proud look upon her face. The girl was about to reach for the brassy doorknob hooked on the swanky rectangle of a front door, but she paused. She slowly turned to face her father. "You're right about one thing, you are the idiot of America, and I don't want to end up like you. I don't want to be an American idiot, ruled by wealth and media." Her father sprinted over to her and grabbed the girl by her shoulders. "You leave this place and you'll die! It's a jungle out there! Nobody will even know your name. You'll just be another Whatsername, left to die on the streets!" The girl whirled around to face her father. "Then call me Whatsername! I don't want to be trapped in this house of solitude anymore! I'm done!" With that last cry, Whatsername sprinted out of the house. She did not stop running until she reached the city. The city had an official name, but everyone just called it the City of the Dead.