You're staring out of the window of the plane, listening to the safety instructions, terrified that you're gonna crash. Your hand is on the window, and you know you should look at the safety video, but you can't do it.
You don't want to miss a second of America, pure, pure America, and you don't. You're watching your country disappear. And, suddenly, the crash doesn't seem to be that bad.
Your ears are starting to plug now. You don't care, either. Maybe you won't hear your mother ask if your okay, because your not. And, for the first time in your life, you don't have an appetite.
The pink t-shirt doesn't fit perfectly, theres a blob instead of flat surface on your belly. You could be pregnant! For the first time, you don't care. What does it matter? Who's going to see it?
The air stewardess gives you lunch. You don't want it, you don't want it, you don't want it. You smile and say thank you, anyway. You're a mature adult. Almost. Two years to go.
Now your sister wants to play catch, and she throws a ball at you. She sees this as a vacation, really. England of all places. ENGLAND. That's like across the globe. You don't know anybody.
Everybody but you is doing something. Everybody. Your sister is disturbing a lady. Your brothers are using their devices. You see a dude using an iPod mini and you don't laugh. Two kiddos, you don't know their ages, are laughing at something in the manual that reminds them of a dick.
Dick, like your ex. That should be his name. You didn't think people hated their exes. They do, they really do. And now, you hate your freaking ex.
He broke up with you, after your life broke up by itself. That fucking ass, that fucking ass that you still have to talk to every day because you're writing together. Why did you do that?
Maybe cause you were in love. Just in love. You're Just In Love. It's not funny, it's a bad pun.
Maybe you should update. You probably should update. You open notes on your iPhone. You start a sentence. You don't know what to do.
The people you write about don't love each other. It's your freaking imagination, that's all. Maybe your friends hate your writing. Maybe they pity-read you. Worse, you're being fooled.
Why write about this? Why on Wattpad? What the fuck are words? Who came up with that.
You applaud yourself for thinking of that, now. Finally. And theres still hours left until you can get off until the next episode of Torture Emma.
No, you still don't want the donut. But thanks, anyway.'
You plug in your headphones and listen to the same Conchita Wurst song until it's time to get of, until you know the lyrics by heart.
YOU ARE READING
Why I'm Emmanuela Swiss
Historical FictionYou'll be original. That's what my mother told me when I was born a freaking middle child. Emmanuela. How will people know that its me? Emmanuela. Thats me and nobody else. Yay me, right? Wrong. So fucking wrong. And here's why.
