It’s been the constant back and forth for years with my mother. It's hard to say, it's hard in general. I want to know what’s wrong; I want to know if it’s a genetic disability. I want to know who I am, and why I happen to be the way I am. My nose burns and my vision blurs from the swarm of oncoming tears, I’m a no body. I’m Useless, just dirt underneath your feet; my mind whispers, as it echo’s against my skull. Sending chills down my spine, the bad kind, like the type when you’re so sick on a hot summer’s day and your brain feels fuzzy.
The months sped by and it’s nearly Christmas. Yick. The worst holiday imaginable, I always wish every year that I could have a normal family… the type of girl who walks her dog and is smiling to herself. Just to be excited to go home and see her mom and dad around the dinner table. I want that… so badly. My thumb reaches down to my left wrist, unconsciously picking at my stubborn skin. My fingers harming my own flesh without worry.
It’s last block on a Friday; I really want out of here.
“What’re you thinking about?” His sudden voice behind me startles me as I jump and every muscle tenses by his presence. He slides beside me, our knee’s touching, I lean my head on his shoulder and sigh. Oh.
“What’re you doing after school?” I ask him before I turn on myself and bite my tongue. I'm probably the most shy person you could know. Probably the most anti-social. He doesn’t respond for a long while and I almost feel the need to shift away from him.
“I’m going to go out I suppose.”
“Oh,” Is all I say to him. We sit like that for a most of the block and talk; he continually pesters me about who I like.
He asks questions like: “Is he in any of your classes?”
And: “So what’s his name start with?” He smiles a wicked grin, like a mad scientist preforming the right procedure.
I usually reply along the lines of: “I’m not quite sure,” with heavy sarcasm I add: “I think it starts with a Z.”
His smile broadens with excitement but he tones it down. He’s bound to know by now, I think to myself.
“If I write it down, will you tell me yes or no?” I nod my head in agreement, I might as well. Even though my gut churns, my face flushes and overall, I feel worried anxious and sick, in so many ways. I think it’s best to just get it over with. Get it out there. Not like anything will come of it. I continually tell myself.
He slides over to my drama group as I lean against the wall, he hands me the piece of paper, and of course I keep my eyes locked on the ground. His writing is pretty for a boy. I acknowledge the way he dots the I in his last name, the way the B is scrolled. My heart beats erratically in my chest, as fast as hummingbirds’ wings. I nod, not trusting my tongue to speak coherently for me. I can see the way his whole body tension fades. And in the moment I won’t ever forget the way he reminds me of a little kid the night before Christmas.
“Zach,” I say his name just to feel it on my tongue. He sits next to me and we just sit there, not saying a word.
» N O T E to readers,
This story can be kind of difficult to write sometimes. I don't know where I am going with it, or where I want to take it.
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Together, by Cassandra Brubaker.
Non-FictionI wasn't always this way. That's a lie, but isn't that how you start talking with a psychologist? When I was 10 years old, everything changed. My mother became a terrifying figure, My step father tormented me. When I was 14, I tried to kill myself...
