K.I.S.S. (Keep It, Short Stories)

Broken Dreams

White lights glared right back at me, my face was stuck in a shape of horror, much like the Scream from that one artwork. They told me to go back to sleep. I didn't listen. Then it struck me hard in the chest. Where it hurt the most. I dreamed a dream, when hope was high and life worth living, I dreamed that love would never die...

School always thought they could prepare us for the worst. Teachers, parents, they're all the same. They don't really understand what's going on, they think they know how to handle the pain, they don't. Not like this at least.

My parents gave me the new ipod back when it was the new thing. Before that, I had to memorize my parents' phone numbers and home phone number if I ever needed to call them. Years passed and the Apple company kept dishing out new products like pancakes at IHOP. When I turned twelve I got my first phone. I called it a candybar phone because it wasn't a flip-phone, or one of those phones that opened on one side, and it certainly wasn't the iphone 3.

I was happy, but my parents who thought that I wasn't using my phone enough, decided to hand me down their now old iphones. I received the iphone 3 when I was in 8th grade. Finally, when the ipad rolled down the aisle and the iphone 4 and 5 started coming out, so did social media begin to gain popularity. I, of course wanted to be different and decided against using social media, for the moment. I persevered, thinking I could make it, my friend introduced me to Instagram when I turned 13.

At first, I posted the occasional photo, but my interest in the app turned toxic and I turned from "this-is-a-nice-app" into "I-can't-put-my-phone-down-for-one-second". At this point schools were becoming aware of this thing called cyber-bullying. I was bullied in elementary school, I thought I could handle it. In fact, I thought this was good for me, I was finally coming out of my reclusive shell and posting about myself and just trying to be confident, much like Mom with Facebook. I owned a private account, and only my friends could follow me; even though I was getting better about myself, I wasn't going to openly post my face, paranoia plagued my mind.

I did something I was paranoid about from Day One. My username was bizarre and I only posted my hands, I had a fake name and even prepared a fake birthday if someone were to ask, I could be anyone I chose. My passion was with the arts, so I followed accounts that were amazing at what they did and I dreamed of doing the same. My ambition devoured my soul, and it was poured into my "debuting" artwork; I wanted my first post to be so mind-blowing that Instagram would flood me with likes and follows. I dreamed a dream. Oh, how they scorned and laughed at me.

I was so confident in my work, my hope was high when I posted my masterpiece. My life would be so worth living when I finally got the attention I wanted. I dreamed that love would never die, and yet it did. The page blew up in orange notifications, oh yes, it did, but not the way I wanted.

There I lied, in my bed that very night, where my phone bleared a glaring white, my eyes widened with terror, where my world did not turn into the fantasy I hoped; and it struck right where it hurt. My heart.