"We are gathered together today not to mourn the loss of Jean Marie, but to celebrate a life that once was. Even with such an abrupt ending, you can't help but think it was supposed to happen this way."
That didn't sound right to me. What was a pastor doing saying it was "supposed to happen this way"? What's right about an early ending to a beautiful life? How could he talk that way about her? God, I hated him. I didn't even know him, but I hated him. His massive glasses only enlarged his disgusting bug-eyes. I couldn't hear a word he said after that bullshit he gave me. He didn't deserve my attention. I wished it was him in that casket. Not my Jeanie Marie.
"Micah, you're bleeding," my mom's sharp hiss of a whisper cut through my trance, and suddenly I could taste the blood. My tongue absorbed the salty, red liquid oozing from my lip. I noticed my hands had turned to fists and my shoulders had tensed and locked. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
"Don't get so worked up," said the hiss again.
"I hate this guy!" My words were met with an angry shush.
"You're not whispering!" She growled under her breath. She had to be saying that to annoy me. I thought I was whispering. Everyone was looking at me now. I didn't know why. The sun reflected off the pastor's planet-sized glasses. The sun had some nerve shining on a day like this.
"It's not like you knew her," said my sister, blinking her jet-black eyelashes that held damn near 30 pounds of mascara. All that did was show she wasn't crying. What a goddamn bitch.
"Didn't know her? No one knew her like I did."
"You knew her at one point. But you know the girl in that casket isn't the girl you knew. Be straight with yourself. She wasn't even calling herself Jean Marie by the end."
"I hate you," I growled, looking down at the ground with my tear-filled eyes. I closed them, letting the hot tears slide down my cheeks.
"Here come the water works," my sister taunted.
"I hate you." I repeated.
* * *
(5 years earlier)
"Take off that dress," I demanded, gesturing towards Jean with an accusing finger.
"No!" Jean yelled, throwing her purse down and stomping her foot. Her high heeled shoes pounded on the hardwood floor. I hated those shoes. They made her too tall. I didn't know why she was so mad.
"You're not going out!" I told her, "not dressed like that!"
"I can dress HOWEVER I WANT!" Jean's shrieks had grown manic now. She sounded like a crazy person as she flailed her arms about, tits bouncing around and eyelashing batting. I think she was crazy. Thinking she could leave the house in a dress like that. Who would be able to resist her in a dress with shoulder cut outs and a visible midriff?
"Either I go with you or you don't go."
"Oh, are those the rules?" She asked, crossing her arms.
"YES, JEAN, THOSE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THE RULES." I was furious now. She was such a goddamn idiot sometimes. Here she is acting like I'm switching things up on her, when this is how it's always been.
"Don't you FUCKING yell at me!" She looked at me as if her eyes could laser through my chest. I hated that. I heard that sound of the slap before I realized I had hit her.
"THEN DON'T DRESS LIKE A WHORE." I clenched my teeth and stared at her. She turned her head to face me, repositioning herself after the slap. She never looked at me like this before. I didn't know how to read it. She looked pretty sexy. But something told me it wasn't the time to say that to her. Maybe later.
"Don't. EVER. touch me again." Her words were spaced out and her tone was subtle. But I could tell this was important to her.
"What are you gonna do?" I didn't know if I was taunting, flirting, or just plane trying to kill time until something smarter came to me.
Her hand shot forward and clenched my shirt with an iron grip I didn't know she had. It pulled me forward, but not too close. I could tell she didn't want me to be near her.
"I will fucking beat you," she growled.
"Oh my God, you need to relax."
"Relax? RELAX!?" Her angry tone evolved into a scream. She pushed me back against the table. Before I could process what had happened, her fist was flying towards my face. It pounded onto me, her ring pushing deep into my skin.
"What's your deal!?" I cried, grabbed the side of my face, feeling the blood she had drawn.
"NEVER come near me again, Micah Smith. NEVER." She grabbed her bag and was out the door. I guess she broke up with me.
Something about this made me pity her. We had been happy before, and I had to sit and watch her ruin it for herself. It was that moment I knew she would be alone forever. She was angry and violent. And selfish too. I wished she would change so someone could love her.
I remembered when I first met her.
(11 years ago)
It was hot that day. I don't think I realized it at the time. The room was so bright, decorated with fruity drawings of flowers and rainbows. The door creaked open and a girl slipped in. I could just about see her mother in the doorway, watching over her child.
There stood this girl. Her skin was pale and her hair was black, falling down her back in messy strands. She wore a red dress that was too big for her and a clashing pink headband that was uneven. Her chapped lips fell low on her face, aiding to her blank expression.
"Class, today we have a new student. Please try to be a friend of..." Her eyes met the child's, showing her knowledge was lacking.
"Jean." Said the girl, as if Miss Charley should have known already.
And so Jean was in my life. I barely noticed her. I don't think i knew how to process her immediate fascination with me. People didn't tend to like me. I was short and yet somehow gauky. I was boney and small; an absolute shrimp. My hair was so blonde it was nearly white, and was no doubt blinding to others in the sun.
But my physical appearance was the least of my worries. I wasn't interested in normal things. Nothing caught my eye the way it did for others. If someone said they thought a car was cool, I wondered how fast it had to go off a ramp to make it across a cliff safely. If someone said a tree was pretty, I imagined it on fire. My jokes didn't make sense often.
But Jean always laughed. I was barely aware of it. I tuned her right out. She was no one to me; just another face. Still, she followed me. Like a stray cat, she followed me, as if I had catnip to give her. I had nothing for her. I stood, empty handed. All through middle school it was like this.
The only change was that I grew hostile. The rejection of my father and the expectations of my mother had caused me to develop something of a superiority complex. And as we all know, the show I put on was nothing but a cover for my insecurities.
Jean was the obvious target. She was small, underdeveloped, and worlds smarter than the rest of the class. She was the girl who's hand was constantly raised in preparation to answer the next question. I distinctly remember putting her books on shelves too high for her and pushing her down the stairs. I remember shoving objects in her matted hair.
Even clearer, I recall her sitting in the corner crying over something I had done.
"You know what they say, Jeanie. When a boy picks on you, it means he likes you."
I didn't like her. I didn't dislike her. She was no one to me. She was empty space. But she was always around. So she was the subject of my classroom abuse.
It wasn't until high school that things changed. But what doesn't change in high school?
