I Told the Stars about You

Chapter 4- A field of sunflowers

A/N: I'm currently reading through chapters and editing. So, the plot is the same I'm just modifying mistakes and deleting any unnecessary sentences. Thank you for reading and if you're enjoying the book, I'd really appreciate for you to vote x

I don't hate the Spring Ball. Hate is a very strong word, that's what dad used to say, although now he uses it for everything. Maybe it's his vision in life that has changed, maybe he's the same person but he sees the world completely differently. Still, I avoid using that word because even if it seems to surround me every day, not voicing it out means I can deny that I'm drowning in it. That sometimes I feel like a I can't breathe from the fire and rage it creates in myself.

I am not appealed to the idea of assisting to the Spring Ball. And for once, it has nothing to do with Cass, or with other people's crappy opinions.

It has to do with me and how I don't enjoy the bad DJ'ing, cheap food, fancy gowns and forced dates. The pressure to go with somebody? Absolutely useless. But yet, there it is. And there are the shrieks from the girls who have been asked out by their childhood crush and the talk of the jocks based on who's date has the biggest butt and the insane amount of money the school is making by putting up a couple decorations and a disco ball in the gym. People might pay the money because they want to sneak in alcohol and get drunk. It might be that they are dumb enough to believe alcohol fixes their problems. I wish I could say it changes with age, but my mum could prove you wrong any day. On that note, I'll mention that I'm not appealed by drinking wine.

I walk toward my locker, peeling off a piece of paper with a 'discount' for the ball. Stuff it in my bag. Pull out my books. Another day, I tell myself as I walk to French class. The pink walls. The poster. The date scribbled in the corner in pencil. The clock on the wall.
Mr Harrison doesn't spare me a glance as I sit down at my usual spot and begin revising for todays' class.

"Sir" I say as a form of greeting.

More French philosophy, weird names and speeches about how we deserve freedom.

I wonder if it's ever occurred to these people that they've only been focusing on half the concept. Half of what freedom is. They desire freedom to have their own religion, freedom to be equal, freedom to work in what they want or not be bombed as they walk to their cousins' house for tea. But what about mental freedom? How do you escape a cage surrounding the perimeter of your thoughts? A cage you created. You locked yourself inside, unaware of your actions, but yet, you threw away the key and now you can't find it. You are not free. What about that freedom? Doesn't that require just as much attention? Isn't its value just as important?

"Ash- come here" At the sound of her voice, I look up. And I know I'm trapped. I know this is my cage and I can't seem to escape it because she's right there, she's so real.

So, I walk out, and I refuse to say a word because all that would leave my lips would be lies. I happen to like this cage better than facing the reality I've been avoiding.

"You didn't read the book, did you?" The hallways are full of students, rushing to their classes, pushing against me, some worried about being terribly late and others walking as if two minutes were an entire era in which they may bathe in slow, calming seas of dumb bullshit. I push the girl gently out of the way, to the side, next to the bathrooms where we won't get bashed into.

"So, you did put it there then?" My voice is filled with accusation. That was my sisters'. Not hers to give. At her lack of response, I imply, "You haven't told me your name"

She smiles, a knowing smile and turns around, sashaying  into the opposite classroom. For students that are in group A. Like she always was.

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