Oneshots

the fence and the rave girl.

guys this is actually just a piece of shit writing i did awhile back for a friend so he could possibly understand how certain neighborhoods make me feel. 

i don't expect any of you to like/get it because it wasn't written to describe emotions to the reader, unlike most of my other works. it's not about raves or homosexuality. it's not even really about being trapped. 

i'm not going to give you a whole explanation onto why i wrote and posted this piece. thanks for reading, however, and voting and commenting. it makes my day. 

(i am also aware that raves aren't quite as magical and pure as i made them sound. it's supposed to be jenny's take on them, not the reality. i am in no way encouraging anyone to go looking for that kind of an experience because realistically, you're never going to find it.)

enjoy. 

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When I was a kid, I used to think the fence was there to keep out the bad guys, the murders and the robbers and all the cruel people in this world, just like daddy always used to say. I’d imagine that after the sun went down, a generator would begin to work, and shoot power through the metal like in the tiger exhibit at the zoo.

As I grew older, I realized the real reason for the chain-link surrounding our entire community of army families. It was there to keep kids like me from the real world, trapped in a reality where nothing they did was acceptable.

Once I started middle school, I knew I was different. In sixth grade, the guys around me would be spraying endless amounts of Axe into the air, staining the whole atmosphere in inescapable scent. They would talk about girls, always girls. About who wore the shortest shorts and who was developing the fastest, and who they wouldn’t hook up with if it would save their lives. I’d always sit off to the side and listen, but not really, because I never could bring myself to see the females in our grade the way they did.

I admired my own gender in the way they obsessed over the other. I liked the way boys chests looked, with wiry pulsing muscles underneath, and a flat set of abs, just before the edge of their boxers. I liked their hair and their clothes, and the way they walked, as if nothing in the world concerned them. And most of all, I liked how they were off limits, the very danger of liking them in the first place.

My fingers wrap around the metal fence, and I imagine I’m anywhere but here. I’m outside, walking freely around the streets of some city, somewhere where nobody looks at me different because of my long hair or my tight pants or the faint line of gold surrounding my eyes. It’s so detailed, I can almost reach out and touch it, but as soon as my fingertips brush the image, it ripples away.

Just yards away from where I sit, a door back door creaks open, and a small girl makes her way through the rear yard and over the fence. She’s dressed in bright colors, her short pink hair teased up at the back, and adorned by a little yellow bow. She checks around a few times, making sure nobody is watching, until her gaze stops on me.

She freezes, not sure of the risk I pose. I can see her examine me, eyes scanning over the rips in the knees of my skinnies and the tightness of my striped sweatshirt.

And then her face lights up with a little smile, and she gives me a wave.

“Hello,” she calls out, and starts over towards the fence. Her footsteps grow wary the closer she gets.

“Hi,” I mumble. Seeing someone outside makes me feel even more trapped.

“What are you doing back there? Are you being held against your will?” She tilts her head and her bangs all fall over the lower eye.