Ramblings of the Mind

What is Normal

Being Clare Alston is not the same as being Joshua Smith or Cassidy Miles or Frank Edison or anyone else. Seriously. Is sitting alone, fidgeting with scissors anything like painting your nails perfectly? Believe me, I've tried to paint my nails and my hands looked more like an art class accident than a manicure. I knew by this and much more that I was different. Though there's nothing wrong with that, I felt that I wasn't the type of different people are supposed to be.

It's Friday recess and I still can't stop telling myself this over and over while my mind is wandering off in my work. Usually, I'm working on my stories or my Notebook of thoughts. This time, the work happened to be the continuation of my daily habit of cutting myself.

 I've never understood why. I'm not depressed, but I feel a weight on my mind that refuses to let go, like the aftermath of someone you love stabbing you or bullies beating you to a pulp. The odd thing was: my life was fine. Perfect, actually. A normal school, home and everything. There wasn't a problem, so why was my head throbbing as hard as my heart as if there's a serious issue? Why do I feel so dead? Why do I feel this horrible HURT? It wasn't long before the building agony exploded in my head, causing me to wince painfully. Long time no see. 

A familiar burst of energy forced me to twitch, and the knife I was enjoying instantly cut deeper into my skin. I didn't scream. I just stared blankly at the ugly masterpiece all over my arms. I knew sooner or later, people would learn that I, Clare Alston, had a secret. Without doubt they would do whatever it took to expose it. And I couldn't help wondering when the whole world would know. All I knew was that It hurt. 

The horror and pain in my bloodstream leaked out in a satisfying flow of blood. At least I'll forget for a while, now that I had some other type of pain to concentrate on.

Throughout the rest of school, if my dumb mind started thinking again, I would calmly reach my hand through the sleeve of my other arm and shove my finger down into the wound. Not only did I receive the relieving pain to cope, but sometimes I could feel my bone or a nearby vein pumping with blood I would spill tomorrow.