Could she get any weirder?
I'm pretty sure that Jerald is gay.
Dylan had an affair with Jill while he was dating Bridget. I still can't believe he expects me not to tell anybody.
No, you're too strong to cry. Hold them in, put a smile on. No one has to know what's going on at home.
Could they stop thinking so loud? Ugh, I can't even fathom my own thoughts with all the crap my schoolmates are thinking of these days. Like why do people have to think about who looks nerdy, or who might be gay when I'm around?
Well, it's not like anyone knows my secret, I remind myself. No one even knows I can hear their thoughts.
This power I possess is a blessing and a curse; for one, I know what everyone thinks of me, which could go good or bad; secondly, I hear everything they think about, which crowds my own thoughts. Something awesome about it, though, is that if I don't know the answer for a question on a test, I can just tap into some smart kids mind.
The bell blares, signalling that school is now over for summer break.
I collect my belongings from my locker and head to the bathroom before going on the bus.
I stand before a mirror, my eyes silently judging myself. My thoughts are the kind of thoughts I wish I couldn't hear sometimes.
I hate everything about my appearance; my pale complexion, dotted with light brown freckles around my nose that are only visible up close if you even know they're there; my straight, long almost-black hair that almost hangs to my waist; my green eyes that state back at me; my way-too thin legs and arms; my too visible collar bones; my thin but bushy eyebrows, everything. I hate it because I'm the kind of girl that everyone turns their back on, because I look anorexic, even though I'm not.. That's what I'm such an addict in reading; books send me into a world far, far away from all the white noise.
I leave the bathroom, not wanting to stand and stare at myself for another second. Instead, I race through the halls, toward the double doors that separate me and three months of freedom.
I sprint, but still don't seem to get to my bike fast enough. It's and old red bike with rust on the pedals and peeling paint on the side, but it's mine. It's my car, and I love it. I love pedalling it, and the rush of wind that blows through my face. It makes me feel like I'm flying.
---
When I get home, climb upstairs to my bedroom. I always liked my room because I decorated it in a way that felt familiar to me; my ceiling a pale blue, my floors a pale green carpet and my walls a deeper blue than my ceiling, but has black and light lilac swirls blowing through, and see-through quotes that are so deep and heartbreaking some still bring tears to my eyes.
Some of my paintings line one wall, the one wall without swirls. That is the wall I put my paintings on. I have no idea what my muse is, just that without I'd be lost since painting is my only release from all of the thoughts that crowd my head each day. My bed has a bloodred sheet on it with grey swirls, --so dark they're almost black--swirls that match the ones lining my walls. Matching pillows lines the top of the bed, fuzzy and cozy to lie my head upon to rest.
At another end is what I call the "girly-side," because it has my walk-in closet, my dresser and my makeup, not that I wear much. Just black mascara and bloodred lipstick.
The last side of my room--my favourite-- has my one of my two windows, but this one has a window seat. The seat part is large enough to loosely curl up in, with my bookshelves on either side of the seat.
My scrapbooks sits upon my dear in a corner of the room, with my full name displayed across the front in fraying glittery letters: Wynter Josiè Enescue.
Sighing, I walk over to my window seat and curl up, grabbing my current read from atop my shelf.
The title Pride and Prejudice blinks down at me as I flip through the pages quickly; I've already read it at least fifteen times.
"Wynter?" A soft feminine voice coos from outside my door. "Supper is almost ready, could you come set the table please?"
"Sure," I mutter, setting the novel down. My mom has always been somewhat afraid of me, even though I've no clue as to why. She always sounds so careful around me, likes she's restraining herself or getting ready to block a strike. I wouldn't ever hurt her; she is my mother after all, even if I don't love her.
I quickly jog down the stairs, my thoughts about my mother clearing when I saw my father sitting at the table.. the same man who is the reason I hate myself. The man who beat me until I bled all over. The man who caused my scars, the one who smashed beer bottles on my arms when he came home drunk. Why was he here? He left us years ago..
There's one more thing I should tell you about him..
He's the reason I can read people's thoughts.
