Whispering Tempest

Chapter Twenty - Tears of Joy

Chapter Twenty – Tears of Joy

There are many different ways to read a mind but first you must acknowledge the differences of thoughts. A basic one is the voice people may think to themselves, asking questions allowed in their mind or reading a passage with someone else’s voice speaking.

Blah, blah, blah…

I throw down the book the Emerald recommended me to buy and rub my eyes. It’s something we’ve already gone over and I’m bored of it. There’s been reading so much lately that I feel like I’m back in school. That will never feel like a good thing to me.

I flip open my phone and stare at the blank screen. It’s Friday night in summer and I have nothing to do. Katie still hasn’t forgiven me. Xander is spending time with his mother. The hospital released him a day ago since they found nothing wrong with him. It baffled the doctors to no extent. And Lord knows I don’t have any other friends to call up. People I grew close to in other foster homes are too far away to hang with. So with my best friends busy, I’m bored by myself.

Time for the comfort of the internet.

“Let’s see,” I mumble to myself. My body slowly scrambles off the bed and moves to get the new laptop I bought with the last few paychecks from Yada Yada’s costume shop. “Pretty pictures? I like it. Corsets and piercings? Yes. Why do I like these things so much?”

When I’m alone, this sort of conversation tends to happen. I’ll speak to myself but not like there are two sides of me. I’m not sure if it means I’m crazy or if everyone else is lying in saying they don’t do it. All I know is as long as I don’t interrupt my own sentences, I should be good.

“Oh cute clothing,” I whisper as I click a new tab and search through my favorite online stores. I don’t have a card to buy anything with but I torture myself anyway and look.

Surfing the web is fun but drooling over pages of portraits is such a necessary torment to me. Not many can tell I have a fascination for fashion photography, especially alternative models. It’s something I’ve always admired. The gorgeous women have curves, tattoos and all kinds of body modifications. They’re more real looking to me, more themselves in the shots. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t the ideal beauty; it’s the look of abnormal belonging that makes them beautiful. What I wouldn’t give to be normal enough to have that kind of job.

Knowing I’ll be on here until I decide to crawl onto my bed and knock out, I push myself away from the computer and head to the bathroom. My body bounces as I make my way flat footed down the hall. I’ve reached that point at night where I couldn’t care less. The lights in the bathroom flick on which wavers the little nightlight plugged into the wall. Picking up my toothbrush, I start my nightly routine.

I want another piece of ink. I’m addicted and I’m not even legally old enough to get them without a guardian’s permission. At least my tattoos are my story and seeing that they’re permanent, they are well thought out. My eyes scan my sleeve art and rest on each skull hidden under the flowers. They represent each family I had to leave, each foster home I survived. The flowers are the blessings I thought I had when I thought I had first been adopted. The skulls came later when I knew I was wrong.

The spider web on my elbow has a similar meaning. ‘Tangled in a web of lies’ as I use to put it. There was a low point in my life where I didn’t want to go on. The system handed me from one house to the next and each had some sort of drama. I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. Luckily, I had help from a friend who got me back on my feet. She was a spider fanatic so I dedicated that piece to her. Her initials are on the back of my elbow but I don’t think she ever knew.