Chapter Three:
My ceramics class is kind of interesting. We're sculpting emotional pieces. I started mine. I knew I wanted to express the demons inside of me. I started with a hand, a convoluted hand with withered fingers like skeleton bones. Then I formed an apple. Half of the apple was perfect: smooth and round. The other half was shriveled and moldy-looking with worm holes and spots and bruise-marks. I molded the hand around the apple.
When my ceramics teacher came to my spot, he looked taken aback. He seemed startled and afraid of the darkness of my piece. He smiled weakly, told me to keep on going, and hurried away. I felt a flicker of shame. Did everyone hate me?
I immediately stopped that thought. The answer was yes. I needed to stop asking myself that question because the answer was right in front of me. Yes, everyone hated me. They had every reason to hate me.
After that, I got called down the guidance office. I thought I was going to be in trouble with my ceramics teacher, but instead the guidance counselor, a plump woman with hair the color of dust bunnies, talked to me. She changed my traditional English class to a creative writing class.
"It's too full" she explained. I didn't care.
I didn't care about much anymore.
Just dying.
YOU ARE READING
Thirteen
Teen FictionShe's waiting for the day when she can sink the knife a little deeper, throw herself down a little farther. She is tired. She wants rest. She is waiting. He's waiting for the day when his stomach shrinks into nothingness, until he can take his last...
