Rebelling

She sat curled up in the booth, hiding in the dim light. Everything about her felt defensive, like a human porcupine. Her hood was up, her headphones in, her eyes closed, her hair intentionally dark and spiky as she played her role of antisocial punk teen loitering in a place of ill repute. She sat with her arms crossed leaning against the side of the booth, her personality filling the space her small frame couldn’t in order to crowd out any potential curious strangers. She didn’t want to tell what her name was, or what she was listening to, or what she would like to eat. She just wanted to sit and forget.

It seemed to be working, since she never could tell you what she wanted to forget in the first place. It wasn’t like there was a him plaguing her thoughts, always thinking his name in capital letters or italics. She didn’t want a him. There wasn’t a rough home, or distant mother, or abusive father, or insane siblings. There were no packs of bleach blond mean girls roving the hallways of her perfectly normal high school teasing and taunting and necessitating all these defenses. No, nothing like that.

If you really wanted an answer, she supposed she was forgetting herself. Trying to forget why she wasn’t happy, why all this calmness and lack of drama and pain wasn’t satisfying her. She didn’t seem to be able to look at the love and support and normality around her and say Yes, this will do. I am pleased with this, and will act accordingly. She, disgusting as it was to admit, craved the bitter anger that laced her thoughts, longed for the bile and venom that rose up too easy for no reason. Her life was boring.

She supposed, curled up in a diner booth as her heavy but cheap eye makeup flaked into her eyes and music her mother didn’t approve of but didn’t have the heart to condemn assaulted her, that she was trying to forget her life entirely.

At least it would be interesting.

It wasn't always like this.