Running Away

Once the door closed behind me, the thoughts of the insults given to me today faded from my mind. Those thoughts had been there since the beginning of the day. They drive me damn crazy. I feel like a handkerchief, being used over and over again. I'm like a leaf, desperate to get free from the tree, to get free. 

I lay on my bed and close my eyes while sighing. I picture myself back in the school, back to the bullies who break me inside with their horrible words. Am I supposed to be a verbal beating bag for everyone? Someone who people can just angry at and lash out. Tears gather in my eyes, threatening to get free. 

I keep telling myself that everything's fine, that I am not what they tell me. I try to convince myself that I'm good, that I'm beautiful, that I'm better than what they think I am. I'm better. 

I open my eyes and look around my room. The room is in the shape of a rectangle, the door in the narrower end. My bed is across the room, in the other end and next to it is a bedside table where I have my clock, tissues and an half-read book. Next to the bedside table is a white cupboard and next to it is a long mirror. On the cupboard there are pictures, a vase with flowers, my jewelry. On it's shelves are thee baskets: in one, there are scented candles, in the second one, chargers, and in the last one are deodorants, perfumes and make-up. Across from the mirror and the cupboard is my table where there is my old computer, drawers filled with papers, notebooks and school books. Next to it is the only window in my room and after that is a small closet which has a small TV on it. My walls are covered in movie posters.

Almost like a robot I get up and walk to my mirror. In the mirror I see a girl with tears on her cheeks and in her eyes, her hair long and blonde. She has soft cheeks, full lips and a cute chin. But something's wrong. She's crying in the mirror. I'm crying. I don't want to cry. I need freedom, I need an escape. 

I turn around and open the window. I stick my head out and breathe in the cold fresh air, feel the cold air pinch my cheeks. My wet cheeks soon make it impossible to stay out for more and I retreat back to the house. The fresh air that had given me some sort of comfort was now replaced with the choking air that was in my room. I lay back on my bed and reach for my phone from my pocket. 

That was my escape, my poor lonesome escape from reality. I unlock my phone and begin writing. There I feel like I mean something to someone, like what I say counts. In the internet I'm beautiful, smart, funny and outgoing, rather than in reality I'm lonely, depressed and broken. I know that I shouldn't look for consolation from the internet world but the world there is mine to shape. In there I am important. In there someone wants to talk to me. 

This is my way of running away, my escape.