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Gripping the pocket knife handle, pushing the blade along the wood, chipping off the sides of the soon-to-be-sword. I stared longingly at the knife--allowing tears to flow from my eyes. I let my mind wander to the hypothetical. Thinking back to the argument that just aspired--trying to understand this feeling. Trying to understand why I'm crying. Why? It's not a big deal--I shouldn't be crying. I'm too old to cry. I need to grow up and deal with it, but I can't.
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Letting the thoughts get to me as I sit on the bench. The ruff bench that's splintering on the edges, the bench that's sun-bleached and poorly aged. I feel the wind blowing threw my blonde hair--making it difficult to see. Feeling the smooth material of the green pocket knife and the coarse feeling of the wood. Bringing my hand back and forth to cut off the useless pieces of wood--watching them fall to the floor.
Compilating what would happen if I stabbed myself in the heart. I can imagine what it would feel like. I can feel a painful throb in my chest and the tears collecting in my eyes. I can feel the heat pooling in my chest and the blood gathering around the knife. What if I gouged my eyes out? Would that be worst? Would I make myself blind? Oh, but what if I slashed my leg open? I can already feel the blood pooling around the wound and the fuzzing feeling in my head. It would hurt---most definitely, but would it get her attention? Would my mom care? Would she be worried? Would she hug me? Or would she lecture me and tell me that I'm irresponsible. That I should know better? Would she do that? I think so. It seems like her.
Would she cry? No. There's no way she would. I can't imagine it. I've never seen her cry--not even at her grandma's funeral. She's never cried and never will. All she does is nag, yell, and demand. She doesn't care--she never listens because she's always right. There's no way she could be wrong. She's too great. She's always better. Better than me, but that's not saying much, as I'm not that impressive. I'm average--no, I'm less than average. I can't even count as basic. I'm low-level trash, a bottom feeder, worthless, and just sad. I'm a sad person that nobody cares about.
Why should they? They shouldn't waste their time caring about me. I'm mean. I'm a bully; at least, that's what she tells me. She tells me that I should just shut up and stop being dramatic--that I shouldn't be so mean. But I don't think I am. Am I? Am I mean, but I try my best. I try to get good grades; I try to be the best daughter; I try to be a good girl. But why doesn't it work? Am I not trying hard enough? Why doesn't she congratulate me? Does she hate me?
No. I'm just being dramatic. This is all in my head; it's not that bad. I'm just dramatizing it for sympathy--I'm just trying to get attention because I'm an attention whore.
