And the windowsill looks really nice, right?
You think twice about your life
It probably happens at night, right?
It was a horrible conclusion to come to, but I felt like every lyric of this song was some how directed, somehow made for me. I knew, of course, that that simply could not be and definitely wasn't true, but the other, more childish part of me told me otherwise. It undoubtedly told me that this band, this fantastic band, sat down and had me on their mind when they wrote this song. But why would someone want to write a song about me? I wasn't unique in anyway that wasn't bad. All the potential I had was destroyed by my flaws and unwillingness to try hard with anything.
Nevertheless, I continued to listen to the song, its music streaming through my head as I closed my eyes and started to think again. When I closed my eyes, it was like being in a different place. No, a different universe. It felt as though I could say or be whoever I wished to be without the harsh opinions of others. People loved me for who I was and didn't question one thing about my choices.
As if to see if reality was still beyond my eyelids, I slowly opened my eyes to find that it was indeed still there. I sighed. There was just no way to escape it. And that was one of the major problems I just couldn't seem to grow out of. My immaturity. My mother reminded me of it almost every single day. "Makayla," she'd say with her signature grin of pure pity and disappointment. "You need to grow the fuck up."
Oh, how I hated that word. Disappoint. It felt as though someone was shooting an arrow straight through my heart whenever I heard my mother say that. I love her so much, and I felt as though I owed her something to make up for the horrible life she had lived. It wasn't at all my doing, but I still felt as though she needed something to be proud of at the end of the day. "But by the way you're doing now, you're definitely not going to be a doctor," My mother had said numerous times before.
Ever since my family could remember, I had always been fascinated with reading and writing and learning. I originally wanted to be an astronaut, but when I discovered the existence of black holes (at about the age of six perhaps), I decided that that career choice wasn't the brightest and most safe idea.
Then, I had decided that I wanted to become a scientist. I didn't have the slightest clue what kind of scientist, just that I wanted to be one. Now, at age thirteen, I'm torn between whether to be a doctor or a scientist. Whatever I became, I just wanted it to be something that could help people.
Deep in thought, I forgot about the music that was blaring in my ears. I realized listening to it at this level of volume could most likely damage my hearing, but it was Twenty One Pilots for crying out loud. The only way to listen to their music was close to if not with the volume raised all the way up. If I did that, I almost couldn't here my parents arguing at night.
I ran my fingers through my greasy, coarse, and thick dark brown hair. Honestly, it had been a while since I washed it, but I was often busy with school and school work and my hair wasn't the kind that could be quickly washed and placed in a wet ponytail. Even since I got a perm, according to my mother, my hair had needed to be washed, blow dried, and flat ironed every single time. And since my hair was thick and my mother wasn't exactly a master hair styler, let's just say it took a while.
I slammed my head down on my pillow in frustration. Why couldn't I just have normal hair? Why couldn't I just have a normal family and a normal brain? Why couldn't I just have a normal life? I seemed to ask myself these questions so much that they eventually just stuck inside my brain and decided to pay me a visit every time I was sad which meant they visited a lot. My mother always told me, and herself I supposed, that if I kept asking for things I didn't have and didn't appreciate the few things I did have, then God would simply take them away from me. That idea scared me a good bit, but I realized that how could I not think about all the things wrong with our life?
Since our trailer was small, only two bedrooms and one bathroom, I was allowed to slumber on the couch in the living area. My brother and sister, Madison and Megell, slept in the far right room of the house. It wasn't a house, but I guess it made myself happier to call it that. Sometimes I questioned if we'd ever get enough money to actually purchase a new and better home. Anyway, my parents slept in the room on the far left of the house in their queen side bed, Megell had a double and Madison a twin. I didn't have a bed to sleep in, but I had gotten used to the feeling of the couch and learned to lived with it. Just like everything else.
Because of the deteriorating condition of our house, we did not invite people over or tell them where we lived. The only people who had ever set foot through that door were my mother, father, brother and sister and I, my dad's daughter, and the other children he had raised. The reason I say dad's daughter is because he isn't my biological father, just my step father even though my mother isn't married to him yet. Plus, his daughter is a lier and a backstabber, and I don't want to call anyone who did such things to my father my sister. My actual siblings technically weren't but half related to me because we had different fathers, but I didn't care one bit about that. We had all came out of the same woman, and that was enough for me.
As for my step father, who really was in my mind not a step father but my dad, I loved him a lot. I didn't at first, only because I didn't know him well and every time my mother went to spend time with him, she'd drag us over to the filthy house. I hated going over there, it made my allergies flare up like hell, and at that time I had to share a double bed with two other children and sometimes even my dad's daughter Mickell, who was now almost twenty years old. I didn't say anything about it though.
Now, we've been living with him for the past about four years. He's part of my family, no doubt, and I definitely do love him, so do my siblings. I just wish the relationship was better between him and my mother. Everyday they seem to fight over and over again about the same thing. How much can one person take? I dread the day my mother has had enough and leaves because this is all we have. What are we supposed to go to?
Here I was, sitting down and replaying the story of my life over and over again. I hadn't realized until now that my life wasn't at all always the greatest. But, as my mother would tell me, we had food on the table and school clothes and everything we needed so everything was going to be alright. I quickly lifted up my phone, feeling its cold case on my even colder fingertips. Clicking the button on the side of it, I quickly found that it was nine o'clock and my mother would flip if she saw me still awake on my phone as usual. I was tired anyway, and for the first time ever, I had already taken care of everything before I laid down in the bed. So, the only thing I had to was use the bathroom. I sighed and lazily swung my feet over the couch, almost stepping on one of my dogs, Jet, in the process. I trudged to the bathroom in a blur, forgetting my glasses on the rim of the couch. When I got there, I used the bathroom and stared at my reflection.
For some odd reason, I did not feel like my reflection was the way I was meant to look. My reflection did not show me. It showed a semi depressed, extremely insecure girl. Was that what I had become?
I quickly finished up in the bathroom, not wanting to confront the evil face that stared back at me in the mirror anymore. I raised the cover over my cold legs and feet, and my other small dog, Precious, happily waiting in anticipation for me to fix everything so she could come to sleep with me. Sure enough when I was done, I patted the area next to me for her to come sleep in, and she hopped across my stomach to reach it. Precious curled herself up in a ball, and I got myself comfortable, stroking her lightly. Eventually, my eyelids became heavy, and I fell into another dreamless sleep.
