Accepting My life as a Book

More or Less a Sob Story

Life has always bee...simple? No. That's what you want me to say. At least, that's what I want to say. For me, life has alway been in the center of a simple exterior. That is, what I can remember of it. So, this is where I tell you my childhood sob story. Well, mine is nothing special. I hear that before, I was who everyone wanted, me to be. I was my dad's little girl, my sister's best advisor, and my best friend's counsler. The problem? I only remember being me, I simply remember existing. Then, there's now. This is how they see me now; the antisocial girl who is there when you need her, but not whrn you dont. Seems simple, at forst ot was, but then I noticed. They all expect me to be who I was. Clearly, they dont understand the meaning of past tense.

My big question; How does anyone go back to who they were, after a not~so~much~an~accident~accident, let alone someone who wasn't who everyone is saying they were?

I woke up wearing long sleeves, and long pants, that seem to be how all my clothes are. It wasn't until I went back into my bedroom that I remembered why. Everyone tells me how happy I use to be, how perfect I was. Funny thing; they thought I was just 'over the top conservative' for no apparent reason. They didn't and don't know about my scars, but ehy would, perfect, past me lie, and why was I so broken? I know I'm in pieces now, but why was I? And why has no one told me anything that sounds remotely familiar?

I have dreams that seem real, like distant memories from the past, and when I came home, the house was familiar, as was school, and the faces of people I knew. I couldn't remember them but they felt familiar, safe. Why is it my past memories are only completely gone when it comes to me? The things the tell me about what I was like, they never feel familiar. My name was familiar, and I recognized myself when I looked in the mirror, but everything they tell me is foreign.

The thing about me is, the farthest back my brain will take me is a year ago, it's my most vivid memory.

My mom and I walked into the bank, laughing at the latest gossip, we were cashing a check, and then we planned in going dress shopping for eighth grafe graduation. It was a normal day, it was hot and the streets were boarder-line busy. Nothing was different, and nothing cued us off. There were no bad feelings or questionable things that we noticed. Nothing told us what was about to come.

We opened the doors, the clean polished scent hit us, mixed woth the smell of coffee which wafted over from Starbucks. The echo of my mom's heals clicking on the tile by the door was loud against the silence of the building. That's when I noticed him. One man stood in each corner, bit I think the one farthest from me might have been female.

In the corner to my immediate right was a male with medium height. He was wearing all black, including a skii mask that covered his face. His shirt was a black v neck, short sleeved t shirt. He was muscular, and you could see his abs against the tight material of his shirt. His pants were plain black jeans. He made eye contact with me briefly, and his blue eyes seemed to hold an appology. Before I could comprehend what was happening, I heard a muffled scream, followed by a gun shot. My head snapped back, and the sight made my head spin. It was, grotesque. My mom's body fell to the floor. Blood was splattered on the wall, and more was pooling around her head. Then I felt a pain in the back of my head, I fell forward, my head hitting the tile, and then there was blackness.

That's all I remember from my past, the rest I have to figure out. I have to read the clues and signs like words on a page to piece together the puzzle of my life, and to piece myself together, I have to read between the lines.