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𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑰 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎.
Antoine's Perspective
I am soaked to the bone, and I'm shivering. I'm shivering because I'm wet. And cold. It's freezing. The cold has soaked down into my bones; into my very being.
But no matter how cold it gets, words still are colder. They make me shiver more. No matter how much water falls on me, a storm will never hurt me inside. Yet such a smaller amount of water in my eyes is getting close to tearing me apart.
Because of words.
Blood is ugly. Red when fresh, then dries into an ugly brown. Too bright, and then too dark. Bruises sting and are tender, and then become dark, dark, purple and blue. But they don't stay.
Water dries.
Blood washes away.
Bruises heal.
But how long does it take for words to leave?
Tears sting my cheeks more than any bruise. Six bruises. Six punches from the girl who hates me more than anything else.
Someone hates me that much. She punched me so hard. With all she had. I have never used all my strength against her. Against anyone. I would never. But she did.
And I'm sure she doesn't regret any of it one bit.
And, to be honest, I'm not mad at her. Not at all. I rarely am mad at Reese Mallory Abbott. It has only happened a few times. And I'm not mad right now, either.
I'm so glad it's raining, because then I would have to admit to myself the tears trickling from my lashes.
I'm sorrowful. I'm dead.
I'm dead to her.
Of course I am. Because she's right. How?
How is she right?
All this time, I've said I know her so well. But I was wrong. Or, if I was right, I left out the part of her knowing me so much better.
Isn't it funny the way that hate and punches and insults and enemies can make two people know each other so well, but in likely the worst possible way?
I can't erase her words from my mind. All this time, I push the truth out. I ignore it, because I don't like it. It hurts. Truth hurts. No one likes to be told they're awful. But it's even worse when you know it's true.
But it's who I am. How can I change when I don't know how? It's true, I am a coward. I am a f***ing coward. Antoine Griezmann is a f***ing coward.
That's it. I'm scared people won't like me. I'm scared I won't be successful. I'm scared for Louis. I'm scared of my father. I'm scared of the teachers. I'm scared I won't be good enough. For my career goals. For my friends. For... everything. I'm scared that one of these days, everything is going to fall.
Like she said, that my kingdom is going to fall. I'm a king building a kingdom destined to fall. But it looks so beautiful with it's silver and gold now. How could I knock it all down now? There's no way to do that.
I want to tell myself she's wrong. I should find her tomorrow and give her what she deserves for putting me through this. Lying to me.
But are they lies?
Words. What are they, really?
Does saying something make a concept true? Does saying something make a thought happen? I don't know.
I really don't know.
I know I'm wrong, though. Something is wrong within me. Everything is twisted and tangled up. It's knotted and ugly and dark, but if I light it up and untie it, it's going to hurt my eyes. My fingers will callouse.
How hard is it to ignore the truth? I've done it for so long, but what if someone says it?
What if everyone sees who I am? What if they turn on me? What if I loose my job? What if I do it wrong? What if I mess it up? What if people don't like me? What if something inside hurts my outer appearance? What if I'm not successful?
I have a horrible headache, and I hold my head in my hands, my body not willing to get up off this bench. Oh well. I may get a cold, but maybe that's for the best. Then at least maybe I won't have to go to school on Monday, right? That wouldn't be so bad. I don't want to put on the cover right now. I don't want anyone to see me as I'm weak. As I'm a coward.
No matter where my mind goes, I always come to one painful conclusion:
What Reese Mallory said about that was right.
I find myself sniffling, and curse myself for it. I'm so weak. Weak. I really don't have things so bad. She's right. But I don't give to anyone. I'm selfish. Everything is based on me. But that's the only way I've kept alive. That is how I've come so far.
I don't understand it, because Reese Mallory laid out every single thing that has gotten me thus far on the table, then pushed it all off, saying that it was all wrong. Useless. That someday, one day, it was all going to come back to bite me, and that I would regret all of it.
If it's working, then why do I worry that what she's saying is true? She said too much to have made it all up, just to convince me to stop bullying her.
I use other people to push myself up higher. But I need to do that, because otherwise I'm low. Too low. It's terrible, but what else do I do? My life is all too hard. She's right. I have some things going for me. I'm handsome, I think. I play good football. But my personality is trash. I'm trash. She's right. I'm worthless.
I feel my throat tighten, and I hiccup, hating myself every moment of it. Because Antoine Griezmann is weak, useless, worthless, terrible, rude, a bully, a coward, stupid, and deserves the fate of everything coming down on him that seems to be in the future.
I shake my head, pulling myself up off the bench. I need to get home. Clear my head. This is too much. It's all too much right now, and it likely always will be.
