Redbluff is such a
small town, full of
mediocre people all trying
to steal eachothers styles.
Sometimes I think the only people
who don't care about how they look
are my best friend and
I.
Though it's not as if
my best friend can
care about what it looks like,
considering it's a composition
notebook. Nevertheless, it's a
great listener... and it
does whatever I
want.
I suppose, if anyone ever
paid attention to what I wrote,
what I wrote in,
they might find it sad, that my
only friend is a notebook.
Though, I doubt anyone
would ever find
out.
Mostly because
I'm a wallflower. I'm bland,
plain, destined to forever
be in the background of the painting.
Never in the spotlight,
but always there to witness.
I know,
stupid.
But in a town the size of a quarter,
you'd think everyone knew
everyone, and no secrets were kept.
My secrets, however, most always
revolve around feeling
small.
I suppose I only have my
parents to blame,
for meeting, for falling in
"love," marrying and moving to such
a claustraphobic
town.
I've always wondered what
it would be like to fit in,
live in a place where it was easy
to connect with the person next to you
like they were your own kin. I suppose
I'll never know where a place
like that
is.
Or if there even is a place like that.
Is it always so difficult to stand out?
Not blend into the wallpaper like some
decoration you didn't want to get but
somehow found yourself buying anyway?
I wonder if I have a place
somewhere out
there.
I'm always hearing about people
finding their 'place' in this world.
and it always happens to revolve around
the opposite sex and "love."
I've always found it difficult to
believe there's a such thing as
love.
I force that
from my mind though, as I try
to concentrate on my schoolwork.
Math is a subject I've never understood.
What kind of thing would want to
create such mindlessness? My mother, before
her alcoholism, once told me, it's
not a what, so much as a
who.
Just as the Mr. Kendalls,
the math teacher asks us how to
solve the ratio he had written on the board,
a boy walks in. I hear the kids around me start
whispering. He's hot.
Yes, he
is.
Tall, blond, built.
Yeah, I guess he would be the tippical
'hot', I thought as he strode up
to the teacher to tell Mr. Kendalls that he
was the new student. And then he turned and
and looked at... me? I looked over both shoulders
to see if he was looking past me, but no one was
sitting behind me.
He can't be looking at me,
though, could
he?
It's not like I was
bad looking, exactly.
But I cirtainly wasn't good looking.
Not like the other girls in this class,
Not like
he is.
I felt myself freeze,
my cells turn to ice as even
my most figity didget stopped moving,
and, as my face heated,
I realized I was completely
still.
But he wasn't still. He, it seemed,
was as free to move as the
nonexistant wind that fluttered his clothing
as he took the empty seat behind me, smirking.
And all through the rest of class,
I could feel his eyes burning holes
into the back of my head,
stairing.
After class I
cut across the quad and into the library.
Lunch was my safety,
a place to go and get away from
the noise of a boring school.
A place to finally be alone, just my
best friend and
I.
I walked strait past the tables and
into the rows and rows
of books, choosing a spot in the very back
between shelves and sat.
I guess this is where I belong.
Because this is where I
am.
Back here, away from crowds,
it was quiet. Here, in the section that
holds nothing but dictionaries, medical,
tree, animals, bee's, I was alone.
I was able to blend in to the
back ground where ever I went,
but here, I was nearly
nonexistant.
I opened the cover
of my composition notebook,
figuring I had enough time to write
a little down, for later
access into memories
I'd have otherwise forgotten.
I know it's
stupid,
But seeing as though I don't have
a friend thats able to
speak to remind me
of the memories I'd lost,
concidering that I'm
a wallflower, It's possibly,
maybe, just a little bit,
alright... that I have a diary.
Gods, I'm so
sad.
Not the teary, depressed sad
that most use the word as,
that my alchoholic mom
would assume is what I meant,
but the kind of sad that lable's
me exactly as what I am; a
loser.
I've never
concidered the fact that
I might have low self esteem,
but thinking about it now,
I guess it made sense.
With me, I guess,
of course it
would.
The story of my life,
though, right? Depression,
low self esteem,
a best friend who's
never shown any interest in
me except for what I shove
into it's card board mouth.
Why would anyone care about
someone like that? A nobody. Would
you care?
I don't think anybody would. An
ordinary girl like me, peddles
a bland shade of yellow,
that turns tannish when compared
to the sickly green wallpaper
background. Who would care
if I died?
I wasn't exactly keen
On the idea of dieing.
But I suppose it was something that
happened to everyone
eventually, right?
Nothing lasts forever, it can't,
not even
life.
As sad as the thought that
there would come a point in time
where you really, truely did
become nonexistant, I couldn't find
it in myself to believe
that there was any hope for an
affterlife for me of anykind.
Thats just the way it
is
I mean, if I'm not noticed in life,
if I'm bland enough that only the
lockers and windows and walls would
want to keep my company,why would that
change just because I died?
I wouldn't have been surprised if
I didn't make death's cut either and
instead was forced to live forever...
no matter how
lame.
Impressum
Texte: Original story. Copyright laws apply here.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.07.2011
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Widmung:
To Ellen Hopkins for the novels that inspired me to try this.