Post by Miss Fifi on Dec 30, 2009 22:56:27 GMT -4
Not dun yet. Please post any feedback on teh first half. :3
The weeks went by with a blink of an eye. I felt the world speeding past me; I wanted to scream for it to stop, beg for more time. To this day, I still wonder why the only thing I held onto during that time was the one thing I had always hated most: secretly watching him from the corner of my eye, trying to imagine those blackened bruises underneath his sleeve. It was all I ever did anymore. After a while of this, I came to the depressing realization that he fascinated me beyond my own understanding. Everything I had ever thought about him must have been so wrong, so messed up, but I couldn't let the doubt go. Every time I ventured to confront him, something stopped me in my tracks. The words wouldn't come; my confidence was gone. I felt blank whenever thinking about it.
Despite my problems with my inner self, life continued to schlep on as normally as it ever had. I still managed to yank myself out of bed every morning, listen to my mom yap endlessly about her chaotic love life, and grudgingly fight my way through freshman year. Recently, she's been sitting me down and forcing me through sessions of "life lessons," or in other words, the type of stuff commonly found in a chick flick and/or parenting book. My mom had a good heart, I knew that. She just had an awkward way of dealing with things, especially since her teenage years had been such a disaster.
One of her favorite, most repeated topics was self-confidence-how I should believe in myself, see the silver lining, soar on rainbows. Yeah, that fluff. The whole speech came out, every pep talk known to man. Sure, I might not have been the best looking, or the smartest, or the strongest, but who wants all of that pressure to be "the best" anyway?
There wasn't anything entirely outstanding about me, that I knew. I stood about average height for girls my age, something I could certainly live with. According to my mom, dad was a walking building-I didn't need that to add to the list of things I got criticized for. My interests weren't exactly common in that particular crowd of kids. Apparently, it's an unforgivable crime to be an individual. I'm so proud of my generation.
Auburn would be the word to describe the shade of my hair- a reddish-brown. It always remained stock straight, laid in choppy rows, and was so frustratingly stubborn I gave up trying to do anything with it after the third grade. It always laid just below my shoulder blades; much shorter, and mom would always say it made me look like Grandpa Chuck. So encouraging.
My features weren't model-worthy, but I wouldn't consider them manly. The thing was, mom had earned the title Miss Massachusetts in her younger days mostly based on her looks, since her talent was barely above mediocre, so it always occured to her that I had alot to look up to. To be completely honest, I didn't give a crap. I felt perfectly content with my fair, freckled skin, dark brown eyes, and thin frame. It occurred to me, much later in life, that during those times I thought and believed in things much different than the general public. Faith wasn't exactly my strongpoint, but I certainly was opinionated. I think I'll be that way for the rest of my life. Being different tends to make things more interesting.
Fitting in always felt entirely overrated to me. The opinion of others did nothing to me. Everything but my own beliefs- completely nonexistent. It isn't going to matter in twenty years what you wore, who you talked to, or if you were a dork, slut, goth kid, or whatever other stereotypes they came up with in high school. It couldn't be less important. I could've named a million other things that mattered more. I didn't care what anyone else thought of me.
That was the lie I loved to tell myself.
Even though I tended to act cold, aloof, disconnected, and distant from the rest of the world, that was far from what I had wanted to be. The world angered me. People frustrated me. None of them ever understood anything but themselves and others just like them. I had such a negative perspective of everything; nothing could ever be "good," the world has always been an evil place, we all end up in the dirt some day. Why even bother trying?
Regardless of what I told others, I always felt like I had to hide my soft spots. Rolling onto your back meant instant death. Innocence is ignorance. I wanted to know everything for what it truly was; I didn't like anything to be cushioned or fluffy. Give me the hard, solid truth, or get out of my life. This may have been the reason I didn't have many friends. Small talk felt like white noise.
Maybe that was why he threatened me so. Perhaps my animosity came down to simple, petty, immature jealousy. No. That couldn't be it. Could it? Oh, please don't let that be it. I'd kill myself before I'd be jealous of him.
And yet, here I was, sitting with my legs crossed, all alone in my room, feeling something insanely similar to jealousy.
Why did it seem so easy for him to be honest with himself? How could he have just revealed himself to me like that? What was it that he had that I didn't? How is it that I have virtually no one, and he has everyone, and yet...
It's like he's on an island.
Beautiful, smart, rich, so damn nice to everyone, and still? Still he felt completely deserted? Was he just attention-hungry?
The weeks went by with a blink of an eye. I felt the world speeding past me; I wanted to scream for it to stop, beg for more time. To this day, I still wonder why the only thing I held onto during that time was the one thing I had always hated most: secretly watching him from the corner of my eye, trying to imagine those blackened bruises underneath his sleeve. It was all I ever did anymore. After a while of this, I came to the depressing realization that he fascinated me beyond my own understanding. Everything I had ever thought about him must have been so wrong, so messed up, but I couldn't let the doubt go. Every time I ventured to confront him, something stopped me in my tracks. The words wouldn't come; my confidence was gone. I felt blank whenever thinking about it.
Despite my problems with my inner self, life continued to schlep on as normally as it ever had. I still managed to yank myself out of bed every morning, listen to my mom yap endlessly about her chaotic love life, and grudgingly fight my way through freshman year. Recently, she's been sitting me down and forcing me through sessions of "life lessons," or in other words, the type of stuff commonly found in a chick flick and/or parenting book. My mom had a good heart, I knew that. She just had an awkward way of dealing with things, especially since her teenage years had been such a disaster.
One of her favorite, most repeated topics was self-confidence-how I should believe in myself, see the silver lining, soar on rainbows. Yeah, that fluff. The whole speech came out, every pep talk known to man. Sure, I might not have been the best looking, or the smartest, or the strongest, but who wants all of that pressure to be "the best" anyway?
There wasn't anything entirely outstanding about me, that I knew. I stood about average height for girls my age, something I could certainly live with. According to my mom, dad was a walking building-I didn't need that to add to the list of things I got criticized for. My interests weren't exactly common in that particular crowd of kids. Apparently, it's an unforgivable crime to be an individual. I'm so proud of my generation.
Auburn would be the word to describe the shade of my hair- a reddish-brown. It always remained stock straight, laid in choppy rows, and was so frustratingly stubborn I gave up trying to do anything with it after the third grade. It always laid just below my shoulder blades; much shorter, and mom would always say it made me look like Grandpa Chuck. So encouraging.
My features weren't model-worthy, but I wouldn't consider them manly. The thing was, mom had earned the title Miss Massachusetts in her younger days mostly based on her looks, since her talent was barely above mediocre, so it always occured to her that I had alot to look up to. To be completely honest, I didn't give a crap. I felt perfectly content with my fair, freckled skin, dark brown eyes, and thin frame. It occurred to me, much later in life, that during those times I thought and believed in things much different than the general public. Faith wasn't exactly my strongpoint, but I certainly was opinionated. I think I'll be that way for the rest of my life. Being different tends to make things more interesting.
Fitting in always felt entirely overrated to me. The opinion of others did nothing to me. Everything but my own beliefs- completely nonexistent. It isn't going to matter in twenty years what you wore, who you talked to, or if you were a dork, slut, goth kid, or whatever other stereotypes they came up with in high school. It couldn't be less important. I could've named a million other things that mattered more. I didn't care what anyone else thought of me.
That was the lie I loved to tell myself.
Even though I tended to act cold, aloof, disconnected, and distant from the rest of the world, that was far from what I had wanted to be. The world angered me. People frustrated me. None of them ever understood anything but themselves and others just like them. I had such a negative perspective of everything; nothing could ever be "good," the world has always been an evil place, we all end up in the dirt some day. Why even bother trying?
Regardless of what I told others, I always felt like I had to hide my soft spots. Rolling onto your back meant instant death. Innocence is ignorance. I wanted to know everything for what it truly was; I didn't like anything to be cushioned or fluffy. Give me the hard, solid truth, or get out of my life. This may have been the reason I didn't have many friends. Small talk felt like white noise.
Maybe that was why he threatened me so. Perhaps my animosity came down to simple, petty, immature jealousy. No. That couldn't be it. Could it? Oh, please don't let that be it. I'd kill myself before I'd be jealous of him.
And yet, here I was, sitting with my legs crossed, all alone in my room, feeling something insanely similar to jealousy.
Why did it seem so easy for him to be honest with himself? How could he have just revealed himself to me like that? What was it that he had that I didn't? How is it that I have virtually no one, and he has everyone, and yet...
It's like he's on an island.
Beautiful, smart, rich, so damn nice to everyone, and still? Still he felt completely deserted? Was he just attention-hungry?
