The Unbelieving

Chapter One

Rosenny

One word was written on the whiteboard: Love.

Crap.

Stupid English class. My teacher just got engaged last month and has been on a love sappy kick. All we keep reading about is love. Gross. Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with love, except that it is made to suck in delusional, insecure, naive people who thinks love will help them find themselves. Make them feel special.

But I know better. I've learned that love is a myth. Something that gives comfort to people at night. I learned this a long time ago. Before my sister left me alone, without looking back. Before my mother drinking to no end. Before my dad left. Before my parents started fighting. But it was when it came down to me between anything or anyone else, it was never me that was chosen.

Trying to earn my family's love was something I've pursued every waking moment in my life. I thought that was normal, until I saw all the other children never having to do anything to get hugs or kisses from their parents. I saw parents embracing and giving pecks on the cheeks of their children before and after school. And me, all I got was my mom or dad standing three feet in front of me and ordering me to come to them.

I never asked them for much, but I had always wished and prayed that someone would make me feel loved. There was no reply, and I never looked for it. It's better to leave things alone.

"Rosenny," Ms. Gardner said. I jerked my head up from my journal to her face. "What does love mean to you?"

"Honestly?" I asked, unsure of how to answer her question.

"Of course." She smiled.

"Okay. I'm so glad you wanted to me to be frank, because honestly, I think it's a bunch of bullshit." I gave her a smirk. I've always hated it when teachers called on me when I've never raised my hand. If they put the attention on me, I'll make sure it'll be a memorable moment.

Gasps and oohs filled the classroom. Ms. Gardner's face was red, partly mad, partly embarrassed, and partly shocked. She looked like she was about to break down and cry. I felt a little sorry for her, but I'll never take back what I said. She asked, I answered.

Ms. Gardner pulled herself together and stammered out, "Th-thank you for being hon-honest. But please, wa-watch your language."

"Fine. I will." I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms on my chest.

Ms. Gardner went back to her lecture about love and everything else that comes with it. It's even worse now that we're starting Romeo and Juliet. She just goes on and on about how much Romeo and Juliet loved each other and how tragically beautiful it was because they died because they didn't want to live without each other. My opinion on that is that it didn't have to end up that way. I know it is fiction, but if it really happened, and Romeo waited five minute after he found Juliet 'dead', they would have lived happily ever after, if that existed. He would have seen her wake up and they'd have a total make-out session. All will be good, except the Montagues and Capulets may have not gotten along in the end. Juliet and Romeo could have tried to fix that before they left, but who knows what could have happened.

Ms. Gardner never called on me for the rest of the period, and hopefully the rest of the year. Once the bell rang, I left the classroom like it was on fire. I didn't like the fact that I was held hostage for an hour, knowing that I'd had to go back almost every day until summer arrived. The brief moment of freedom was followed by the disappointment that remind me that life fucking sucks. School is just a prison, killing teenagers' dreams of being free. People say it's made to help us in life, but how does it help when you are forced to learn stuff that would no way in hell help you in what you want to do for a living. If you want to be a singer, how in the hell does geometry apply to that? I mean, come on! Just one more year. Then... I don't know, but I'll no longer be fettered to something that makes me want to kill myself. No more school, no more of these fucking idiots that roam the town, no more thinking of my family, or at least what's left of it.