Abnormal

Chapter 3

My fingers squeezed the pencil, stroking it vigorously across the blank paper. I gripped it firmly in the carefully poised position as if it were a dagger slicing through the page, and it nearly did, with the pressure it endured as my fingernails dug into the wooden stick. I could feel the tenseness of my muscles as they throbbed, sore from such strenuous effort. The combination of habit and stress was the caused my hand to naturally clench into a dagger-like pencil-grip. I wasn't planning on stabbing anyone, though. Not today, at least.

I paused, dropping the pencil down onto the desk and holding out my work. Seeing the hideous creation, I had half a mind to rip it in pieces, with its crooked lines and misproportions. They stared up at me viciously, taunting. "You're a failure!" they squeaked, "A good for nothing nobody! Why do you even try? You'll never amount to anything!"

The exhausted state of my mind was only perpetuated by the intense agitation I felt, the anger and frustration rising up within me. It had to be vented somehow, but screaming didn't seem like a good option, considering the other people in my house--specifically my family--so I reached for a big fat eraser to scrub it out instead. At least the graphite markings couldn't tease me once I had obliterated them. As I rubbed the eraser back and forth, the paper creased, crumpling before my very eyes.

Unable to stand the insubordination of my drawing materials any longer, my wrist jerked up and the sketchbook went flying in the air. Much to my dismay, it then landed on my desk, right on top of a cup of water left there days before. I watched in stupefied horror as the liquid sloshed all over my textbooks. Sure, I hated school but ruining textbooks probably wasn't the best solution. The trickling of the water down the side of the desk prompted me to spring up and scramble for a towel. The books might've been a hopeless cause, but the rest of my junk cried out for protection from the encroaching waves.

Fortunately, I had left my towel from last night sitting on my dresser. First I wiped up the remaining water spilling over the edge, then watched the towel parachute to the floor as a released it from my grasp. Not wanting to touch a sopping wet piece of cheap cotton, I stepped on it and swished it around till most of the water was absorbed. The towel went to the bathroom where it would remain until someone else collected it and stuffed it in the washer. Not me, though. Laundry was not a favored activity of mine or anyone in my house for that matter.

Having returned to my room, I sighed and stood by the window. The sun shone through a flawless sky, providing a warm patch of sunlight where I was standing. At least there was one inanimate object that wasn't out to ruin my life.  "Thanks, glowing ball of plasma," I said with a slight grin. I lingered there for a while more, contemplating what to do with the rest of my afternoon.

Running always sounded appealing, that is, if I had been a runner. Unfortunately, my scrawny legs and lack of stamina made such pleasurable recreation quite a challenging feat. Despite the many obvious health benefits of rigorous exercise, I chose to follow my heart-no, not the guidance of my desires and emotions, but the physical structure pumping blood throughout my body which apparently could not keep up even with my turtle's pace jog. 

Wasn't it rather strange anyway, how running had become such a glamorous sport? A hundred years ago, a young woman might be admired for her strings of pearls. Now it seemed attractive to wear the beads of sweat. The standards of culture shall always remain a mystery to my uncultured mind...

Reaching into my stuffed closet beyond the canopy of clothes, I felt around till I procured the object of my search: a bicycle helmet. I then slipped on a pair of socks, jammed my feet into my outgrown sneakers, and was out the door and gliding down the street on my baby blue slightly rusted bike.

A light breeze kissed my face and lifted my jacket in the air. Fields rolled by beside me, still and calm other than the occasional rustle in the grass. Cracked asphalt guided my path, the lines upon it long worn away by the snow and rain and what few vehicles passed. I had been riding a while when I saw in the distance the hill. This was the hardest part of the journey but by far the most rewarding. My breath was heavy as I mounted it; I grew so increasingly slow I nearly stopped, an event which would cause me to roll all the way back down to the bottom from which I came. But once I passed over the top, adrenaline rushed through my veins as I split through the air and raced down, down, down, the hill...

Suddenly I saw the truck driving towards me at much greater rate than mine, veering into my lane. A different kind of adrenaline flooded me while I swerved to the side right as the Chevy whizzed by, knocking me off my balance so that I tumbled off my bike and felt the stinging pain of the asphalt scraping against my bare hands. Seconds later my face collided with the dirt, where I finally landed after tumbling over a few times. Spikes of grass further afflicted me as they came into contact with my raw skin. I finally knew why they called them grass blades.