marcelle

TW-mention of overdose

When I was younger, I promised myself I'd never be one of those teenagers who hate their parents or think they're fat and can barely bear to look at themselves.

But here I am, staring out the window as the sun sets, listening to the sound of the wind outside echo through the cracks in my walls. A few trees are scattered through the slow-swaying freshly cut grass, pale clouds dancing through the pinky-blue sky.

Perhaps I only hate my parents now because my hormones are all over the place or maybe I've been given more reasons to over the years, and maybe I only think I'm fat now because my hormones are all over the place or maybe I've been told I am too many times, I'm not sure. I know my parents are good people, everyone likes them. Maybe it's different living with them. And I know I'm not fat. Actually, I'm closer to being underweight than overweight, but I still feel 'fat'.

'Maybe' is a word that pops up in my brain too often. Maybe today will be different, maybe today will be better. Maybe I'm better than i think, maybe I'll be able to go outside without feeling out of place. I don't know why it just keeps coming up, maybe I'm just too unsure of everything around me.

Or maybe not.

Who knows.

There I was, sitting on the front steps of my school, watching the boy I've liked for three years tongue wrestle Charlene, the brattiest rich kid you'll ever meet. Half of me wanted to throw up, the other half wanted to scream 'Get your tongue outta her throat!" but neither of these would help my case.

The bell went, so I got up and walked inside, holding my black graffiti notebook close to my chest, skimming over the presentation I was about to give.

The presentation went alright. I got an 86/100. It was on a favourite singer or artist. I didn't have one, so I covered different genres and styles of music, which my teacher wasn't thrilled about.

"Marcelle, i just don't see how we can put any of this information in a 'Favourite Artists' scrapbook, can you?" He questioned me.
I locked eyes with him, "I suppose we could give it a go, don't you?" I huffed.

He shrugged, jotting some notes down on a piece of paper. As I sat back down, i heard Charlene and her stupid boyfriend, Kai, snigger. Why do I even like Kai?

Of course, both of them got a perfect score. I overheard the class gossipers wondering aloud about how Charlene didn't deserve the 100%. They were confused as to how she got it. If I were a part of that group, I'd tell them exactly what I think happened: Charlene's dad paid the teachers again this year. He did it last year, and she got perfect marks all year round. What's stopping him this year?

English has always been my favourite subject, ever since I was little. My teacher, Ms Richford, doesn't especially like me. She says I'm too quiet, which somehow effects my grade and performance in the class even though it's supposed to be an individual work class.

After English, it was lunchtime. Out of all the classes, lunch will always be my least favourite.

I stared out at all the kids, frantically trying to find their friends. I watched them all sit down together at their tables, yapping and giggling about their classes and boyfriends and families and friends and stupidly perfect lives.

I stared out at all the kids, frantically trying to find their friends, knowing full well no one was trying to find me.

As every other day went, I waited until everyone was seated before sitting at an empty table. Slowly, I pulled out my ham sandwich and bit into it, the soft sound of sad piano ballads playing through my headphones.