Floating Through Life ✔️

Chapter 3

She blinked again, this time her subconscious chose to project the end of her years as a middle schooler. This time she wasn't crying, but she was sitting on the bed curled up and reading a self-help book. Her parents had recently known about the bullying. She felt guilty and disappointed like she had failed the people that wanted her to succeed in her life the most. Like she had been given love and admiration and only gave back the pathetic mess that is herself. Unworthy, that's how she felt, yet she couldn't block the relief that came with the knowledge that her suffering would be over. Little did she know that life could mess a person up in so many different ways.

Her parents worked on her transfer to a new school, and she was working so diligently to be able to fit in not only in a new school, but a new division as a high schooler. By the time, she'd matured a little into a young lady. She wasn't stick thin anymore, and her freckles had faded a little. She had also began dying her hair a lighter shade. All of these memories crunch and twist into one feeling of confusing mixed elation. That one feeling that hit her hard every time she remembers herself on that bed, foolishly hoping that a book could turn her into someone that she longed to be. It all turned to disappointment though. That was how her world worked.

She opened her eyes once more, her lashes tainted with the tears that hold to her shame that she bore as a part of her own self. The room darkened as the sun came to set, and hues of orange and pink colored the sky. She walked to the window, sitting on the seat bellow it. She leaned her elbow on the window sill and her head on the glass. Her back garden reminded her of many sleepless nights filled with anger, misery, and shame. It reminded her of her past life.

Hot tears cascaded down her cheeks consistently, and her heart contracted in ways that didn't make any sense to her. The bangs decorating her forehead laid shriveled due to the sweat from her walking. Her fingers were a bit sore from grazing the harsh walls. She felt small and incompetent in the room that she spent years of her life being so in. So was she going to miss this place, really? Beyond the small sad memories, beyond the security she felt in this little space, back to the core of her existence, would she? Unable to answer the questions she was asking herself, she continued passing through her memories, but this time, they were going to be raw ones, they were going to be her real truth.

She closed her eyes and took herself further back. She was on the ground making a mess of the crayons her mother got her.  She was seven, and it was her way of protesting against the rubbish she had to do instead of reading. Her Dad sat next to her, watching her be angry with a small smile on his face. She always had a closer connection with her father for she had always felt like he loved her for who she was rather than who he wanted her to be. He encouraged her small hobbies, he supported her dreams, and most importantly to her: he accepted her. Having only one parent with a role like that allayed her constantly racing mind. She was loved. She was her father's joy: Abigail.