Old Short Stories

What a room

  Well. The door was locked.

  I didn't even have to try it to know. I was sitting on the other side of a blank grey room, and the door was locked. Some of my friends sat around me. They were just, great. I don't deserve them.

  Oh yeah. There was another person there too. I don't know how to classify them.

  My friends, the other person, and I sat around the small bland room, and they began to talk.
  Mostly about random things, the things I'd expect from them. Stupid things. But it was fun, they always had a way to make talking to them so interesting. I wish I knew how to. Maybe I wouldn't be so quick to delete or regret everything I say?

  No, that was a result of something. It won't be going away anytime soon. I'm not dumb, I know this.

  It was sudden, but I could feel a shift in the atmosphere. It went from comforting, and happier, to cold, and unwelcoming.

  The, other person started the new conversation. And mentioned my cloths. I tried to look at myself, but I don't think it worked. Nonetheless, I knew exactly what I was wearing. My favorite grey hoodie, a soft pale green shirt, and black sweatpants with my converse.

  It could've been worse.. right?

  The other person kept going. Stating how my hoodie was gross and made me look unattractive. I should let my hair regrow. I look like a boy. Maybe I should lose some weight. Why do i keep dying my hair? My name is gross. Oh, well, the chosen two. I have stupid fucking interests.

  My friends, listened to them. They began to chime in.

  Can't she wear something that fits her for once? Why doesn't she try to look like she isn't homeless? Why does she even try to draw? It look like shit. She is dumb.

  I really, wanted to try that door now. Though, the fear of being alone once I did loomed over my stupid, broken mind and I stayed.

  I could take it.

  I've taken so much worse.

  Then the other person came over to me, standing, while i sat cross legged. They were taller than me anyway.

  "You should leave, or I'm gonna get depressed."

  again? I know what manipulation is. I have called you out on it, and refused to to with it. You got worse. But, you're trying again?

  I didn't call them out this time. I didn't say anything. I feel like I couldn't, even if I had tried.

  "Well fine. I'll leave then. Don't follow, you liar."

  And they did. The door opened, they giggled, and they left.
  The atmosphere didn't change, though. In fact I think it got worse.

  My friends began to mumble. I couldn't hear it. What I could hear was a chorus of different words with similiar opinions that were formulated into a sentience to cut. To harm. To hurt.

  Then. One of them got up. And left without a word, but not before glaring at me.

  It was still, cold, and silent.

  Then others joined. It was still so quiet. I couldn't move. I had to stay in this, room. Their footsteps made no noise. I wonder if they even took a step.

  One by one they left the room. Until it was me, and the one person I met who warned me about the other. The friend I've had four years, that was better than the one person who called themselves my friend since kindergarten.

  I'm in highschool now.

  She stood up, and walked over to the door. Before opening it, she turned to me, and said one thing.

  "You have a fear of abandonment, right?"

  She wanted for a response. I nodded my head. She seemed to take it into consideration, before opening the door and stepping out.

  The door was locked.

  I sat, directly across from it, and couldn't make a sound. I'm alone. I'm alone again.

  They all left me. They said they'd stay as long as they could.

  Where did they go?

  With her.

  I'm alone now.

  They aren't coming back are they?

  I can remember crying, but I was waiting. For one to come back just one.

  My bleak grey room grew moss. And flora. No flowers bloomed though.

  I was waiting. I'm busy.

  They have to come back. They promised they would.

  So I kept waiting.

  I was fulfilling my end of the promise, why aren't they fulfilling theirs?

 

  It was so long. Well, it seemed like it.

  A small, blue flower with a yellow middle bloomed on my wrist. I know this one. I know the saddening meaning behind this small beauty.

  I kept crying.

  I was crying for every time I hadn't. Every time I had been hurt, every broken promise, every chip in my poor error racked mind.

  But it helped nothing.

  My eyes stung, and I had a headache.

  So, I cried for one thing.

  I cried for the small flower on my wrist. For the meaning of it. Why something, so pretty, and so small, had such a heartbreaking and huge meaning.

  I kept waiting.

  My little flower wilted. And I cried more.

  They didn't come back for me.