It's Me, Luke

4

11 January 12

Wednesday

Dear Jane Doe,

Today I am not well. Yesterday I wasn't well. Truth is, I'm never well. Or maybe life just really sucks, and it sucks exclusively for me.

Today is Wednesday, and I just got home from Johnny's. It is eight in the evening now, Jane, and the sun is disappearing from the horizon. Can you belive I have been there for four hours? I have been in Johnny's den for four fucking hours!

I don't know how I did it, but I actually survived his stupidity. It was so hard teaching him, he can't learn a single thing! And if there's a wrong answer from him, he insists it is correct when frankly, his answer is a mile away from the right one.

What's the point of my existence when he himself cannot accept his mistakes?!

On a parallel world, I would say fuck him. But it's not how life works.

Sorry, Jane. I'm just so pissed off of that person.

Good thing, though, since I am a good teacher myself, I was able to let the lessons sink in his non-existent brain. He was not as good as a normal person, though, but out of twenty five questions I gave him, he got ten correct, and from a hopeless boy like him, it is an improvement.

"I hate math." Johnny declared as he slammed his pencil down.

"Figured that one out ea - "

"Shut up," he cut me off, shoving my shoulders back. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"But you asked for my help, didn't you?" I said, mustering the straightest voice I could pull off. In school, I would never have said that, but I did, I just talked back to Johnny Furrow: the school's bully.

He turned his to my direction, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. At this very instant, I knew I shouldn't have said what I have said.

"Just because you helped me with this nonsense, doesn't mean you can talk back to me like that."

"I- I'm sorry."

"Get out," he ordered, shoving me out of his room like I was a pestering dog.

When I stumbled on the carpeted floor outside his room, he said, "If I hear a fucking thing about this at school, I'm telling you, Luke, I'm going to break your fucking neck."

And then he banged the door close.

And that was that: no good-byes, no thank-yous.

What a legit ass.

Anyway, I am just so glad the day is almost over, Jane. This day couldn't get any worse.

Can you believe mom cried just because I went over a friend's house? I never even said Johnny was my friend! Clearly she didn't understand when I said the boy only wanted me over to tutor him. Clearly she didn't understand when I said he was my bully!

Am I that hopeless for her to cry like that? Jesus. What is wrong with my mother?

Better question, Jane: what is wrong with me?

I wish you could answer me, but you can't. I just wish anyone could answer me.

That being said, I'll stop sounding lIke a girl.

So yeah.

But I do I have someone to answer that question. Do you remember when I told you about Dr. Holt?

Yeah, I almost forgot about her.

She's my doctor. She's a.... psychologist, or therapist as I would rather call her. She helps me with my problems, and gives me great advices. All in all, she's one of those not so terryfing member of your female kind.

Yep.

I tell her eveything, just like I'm doing with you. Every time I consult her, which is once every two weeks, I open up to her. She's not a judgemental one, which is good. Although sometimes I hate it when she goes all 'I know everything and you shall listen to me - no! Don't speak, I know exactly what you're trying to imply.'

Oh, you might ask, why do I need a therapist?

Because.

Nah, because I'm a troubled teenager. Not the drugs and bars kind of trouble, but the bullied type. Mom worries I'd cut myself someday, so she insists I get a therapist, which is definitely fine for me. Although I would never ever cut my wrist to die, because I won't die, and that would be a little attention-y. If I really want to die, I would've just jumped off a cliff - that would be much better, and in that way I'm sure I'll die.

Why am I talking about death?

I may be bullied, but I'm not an emo.

No fucking way.

The day before yesterday, right after I finished writing a letter to you, I went to her. I told her about everything, including the throw-a-fry-on-Luke's-face incident. She said my idea of running away was the best thing I could do. She said fighthing back wouldn't do anything good, and that I did the right thing. But it doesn't sound like a right thing to do, does it? Guess not. But Holt is the doctor, and she knows it. She also told me that I had to make sure Johnny wouldn't hurt me befire I tutored him, and if I made sure of it, she said I should try to befriend him, and try to make him realize that really, I am a great person (Thank you, Dr. Holt! ) and I that I do not deserve the treatment he gived me.

That, I did not do.

That, I could never do.

Johnny is a prick and I would never, ever try to befriend him.

Ever.

Yesterday, school was horrendous. Same old, but still. As usual, when I got called in English class to answer a question, and got it right, everyone laughed at my ass. Everyone whispered nerd, teacher's pet, know-it-all, and asshole.

Well, I'd like to tell them that there's an obvious line between an asshole and a person who knows how to have good markings in school.

Because assholes are them.

And me, I'm a student who struggles to get through high school with good GPA for a decent University. Not to brag or anything, but I do the getting through school part well.

But out of all bullshit, I'm fine.

In fact, even after a bad, bad day, I am watching Adventure Time. I know, it's lame knowing that I am seventeen now, and I shouldn't be be watching some cartoon network show for kids, but....

I like the character of Marcelline. She may be obtaining the blood of a demon slash vampire, but she's actually chill. Her voice is amazing and for fuck's sake, she can sing only with a bass. A fucking bass guitar. I mean, who can do that? And who does that?

Enough with the nonsense. I'm sorry for randomly placing adventure time in this letter. I just do things like that - randomly.

I hope you'd still think I'm decent now you know that I have a therapist.

After all, people with problems deserve someone who gives a shit - and I guess having that one person doesn't make you inhuman at all.

Soon,

Luke