46th Street

1: And The Incident

~Robin:

I like to think it was raining that day, my theory for ever other: Always getting rid of an excess weight. In the scene of my drop-off, I'm the excess weight, sadly, or not really. I like to think they were seriously high and that dropping me off here was an accident, but the cops arrested them for DUIs because of their idiotic driving. I like to think its okay, that I'm alright; that I'm not depressed, I don't weep. I lie to myself thinking I don't envy an essential life. My parents' decision didn't harm me in anyway imaginable. But that's not the truth. What is the truth? Honestly, I neither know nor care what the truth is anymore. The truth is a girl: complicated and hard to maintain. It sucks you in, never lets you out. It cries when no one is there for comfort. It takes a lot of convincing to let it say what should be said. It's a bitch. Truly, I'd rather have my own assumptions of the event than knowing truth. I can't understand the truth. It's not my type of thing. It leaves the listener waiting, pondering, wandering what might come to be. It's a desperation, then an obsession, later on, an addiction. The difficulty of being satisfied with nothing is a side effect of being away from the truth for awhile. Like I said, it's not my type of thing. I enjoy realism. That's all I've ever search for. Real people, real answers, real happiness. Realism.

...

"Wake up, retard!" The yell breaks my calming silence.

"Haven't you heard how many times she's been calling. Go!" Unsure of the taunting voice calling out, I rise from my not-so-warm sheets to trace the source. Tragic mistake.

ALL the girls of the house surround me like a pack of hungry wolves ready to pounce at any given moment. I don't like this. I really don't like these things: Confrontation scenarios. They cause nervousness even though there shouldn't be any reason of it. It's something I've never really understood about myself.

"Aren't you going to say something, freak?"
Now I know the voice was Alecia all this time. Her presence is not one I enjoy. She's responsible for all my nights spent sleeping on cardboard boxes filled with rotting fruit outside this unwanted home. She hates me. I wish to be sure of a reason to this but I am not.

My stupid self has gone silent again. I am aware the girls still continue their visibly judgmental faces. "she's crazy." "She's so stupid." "she's a weirdo." "What's wrong with her?" Are all that I can hear. Why are they talking about me? Why are so many people here? Can't they go about their lives without acknowledging my existence? I really want to stand up but I'm somehow frozen in place as I scan everything and everyone around this room. It is an overwhelming number.

"Robin! Get over here now! You know damn well I don't call twice!" Mrs. Bernardes calls again.

"Just go already!"

"Stop shouting at me!" I squeal.

"Ugh! Do you really want to get in trouble? Move your ass already." Alecia waves at me.

"I would if you all stopped talking about me! It makes me scared and nervous. I'll only go when you all stay silent."

A bunch of girls vigorously tug me by the wrist. No. This is bad. The last thing I need is a bunch of people touching me when I'm experiencing shock and terror.

"Let go, your hurting me!"

They continue.

"Come on, let me go."

"Move!" They scream and tug harder.

...

"Oh my God, she's bleeding!"
A huge crowd forms around one of the girls who kept tugging me. She's weeping.

"Look what you did now!"

I stand up: stutter like an idiotic robot, begin to shed all the tears that would have been saved for tomorrow's thoughts, and close my eyes to block all the angry pupils facing my direction. Crap.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Mrs. Bernardes joins with the shocked and angry bunch.