MAYBE FOR THE BETTER

(CHAPTER THREE) TANNER

DECEMBER 17TH, 2009:

I hate this feeling, this familiar feeling that aches at the linings of my stomach. It taunts me, tickling my body, itching my throat, pulling the hairs on my thin skin. It is very unenjoyable. It's hard to describe what it is; it's not a guilty emotion, nor is it exactly depression–a mix of both? Maybe?

The seat I sat on itched me, uncomfortable on my skin just like the feeling I'm feeling. Grandma sat next to me, digging her nose into a book I couldn't draw myself to see. Books, such an overrated thing people tend to involve themselves in. I've never understood how people could sit and read for hours on end, imagining a whole universe where they do not exist in. It seems too fictional–too hard to do,

But my comfort is music. Music I do get. Music is my therapy, besides the place where I'm sitting myself in–this isn't my way of coping; mother insisted 'talking-it-out' would help–but music is everything to me. It helps speak for me, I don't like speaking about me–and music takes the words right out of the crevices of my very being and speaks it. Something I wish I was able to do–but I can't and I couldn't. And because I couldn't when I needed to, I'm forever silenced for the rest of my life.

If only I'd spoken up about it, maybe then I wouldn't be sitting here in this waiting room, eyeing the door to Hell to open and swallow me inside.

My leg bumps itself up and down in a constant pace, not stopping, easing the prickling sensation all over me. And I allowed it, because I needed it to help soften me. Well, that could be it–or it could be because music was blasting into my ears. One beat of the song my leg bumped down, then the next my leg bumped up, so on and so forth.

It's funny, because the music I listen too doesn't fit my personality. I never enjoyed pop music, or sad songs, but rock and metal, songs that could make me deaf in the future. All the raging voices, heavy guitars and banging drums spoke many volumes to my soul–it revealed what anger felt like to me, what it felt like to be someone as angry and alone as I.

And that's what played in my headphones that were attached to my CD player, an old one. I could ask for an Ipod for Christmas, or birthday, but why bother? I don't know when my death will be, and a CD player does the trick for me, so why waste money on new technology if old works just fine?

The door I glared at began to grow boring to my eyes, and they scanned around the room, staring at whatever was even a little striking. And in their journey around the room, they found a woman, a beautiful one. Her legs were crossed, perfectly shaven and glimmering under the lights above us. They were beautiful legs, like legs you'd see an actress have. Long, clear and shaven skin is what she had.

She wore a short skirt, the skirt ending at a few inches above her knees, her white collared shirt tucked in neatly under it. Unlike Mrs. Collins, the outfit fit her body frame–and she was pretty in the face as well. The lady stared at a magazine, strolling her eyeballs all around it, letting nothing that could be being displayed going unbeknownst to her.

The woman was addicting to look at, big silky black hair, calm face, sexy body–I couldn't stop my eyes from exploring every inch of her. She sat across from me, directly across from me, not knowing I was glaring at her heavily, craving her. Was it weird to crave a grown woman who I'd never met? Maybe. Maybe I am odd, but I don't necessarily have to know someone to want them.

She cleared her throat judging by the moving lump in her throat, her lips pursing together like fish lips, and my heart thumped as she drew her eyes up from the magazine and looked past me. Although her eyes were near me, I still couldn't stop trailing my pupils up her legs, my emotions switching from heaviness, to a pleasuring lightness felt as a throb throughout my body.