Don't Look

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
My Seventh grade story.

Submitted: January 12, 2012

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Submitted: January 12, 2012



It's like you can take this story of happiness and friendship, of love and trust, and turn it into something absolutely sinister and sad, a story that houses betrayal and friends-turned-enemies.

But it's the truth you'll read, not the fake content that most of us are afraid to step out of. That most of us live in. It's like if you were looking inthe mirror, and you were looking for you. Not the fake-you that others see; the "happy" face that doesn't quite light up the room, and the bounce in your step that, if you looked closer, looked like a drag covered by a limp.


You see the you that only smiles a bittersweet, heartbroken smile, the smile of one who doesn't want nor knows how to live anymore. You see the you that doesn't have on the pound and a half of chains, bandannas, and wrist bands, and under them, you see the bloody cuts and scars that no one else has laid eyes on. You see the way your hand shakes when you pick up a simple butter knife because you wonder if it's sharp enough to slit your throat.

You see how you drag your feet in the halls with your head down when none of your friends are around to block and soften the names and taunts that get thrown at you and when you can't quite remember anything that feels better than ripping open a raw vein with a blunt object. Slow and painful. What you think you deserve.

You see it all.

But so do others.

Like the boy who sees you as a target, but is friends with a lot of your friends. You know he sees it, because, well, hello: Last Friday, he slammed your arm in your locker, and when he walked away, he said,

"Betcha like the pain, don't you, emo girl?"

And you cried for about thirteen seconds, because, one, that's all you had, and two, because it was true. You moved the arm, still in the locker's hold, against the metal latch and gave a huge tug, successfully cutting your arm open three inches but also getting free. You laughed, too, don't forget that. You didn't care.

His girlfriend, who is a target herself, but sees you as a bigger one, she calls out to you and says,

"Hey, you. Can I borrow your razor?"

And you know what she's talking about, because you have them right there in your pocket.

But you're fake-you. You smile and flip her a pretty finger and laugh at something your friend said five minutes earlie, just so your hitched choke of surprise was covered by something. But, as you're laughing, you're thinking about how you could bring a gun to school and those two would be the first to go. And those are the thoughts that really get you laughing, because you imagine their heads being blown off by your dad's twelve gage shotgun.

If you weren't afraid to be made fun of, you'd draw it nexthour in art, because it's free draw day. And it's funny. But when you stop laughing, you remember what he said to you and your boyfriend that morning, coming out of third hour.

"Hey, you guys. How good is emo sex? Do you cut each other in bed?"

And you remember how you cried silently, walking to science class, and how your boyfriend didn't even notice. And you remember how many times he got called "fresh meat" and how deep his wrists were cut the day after he was thrown five feet down the hallway. You remember thinking,

'Why didn't he talk to me?'

And then you thought, when you were sitting in the school councilor's office, with your whole entire left forearm butchered all to hell and forty three aspirin pills in you and ringing in your ears,

'Why didn't I talk to him?'

The councilor asked why you did it. You laughed at him and told him to "Eat shit. Maybe check the tapes of the last three fucking months. You'll know why." Then you walked out. You didn't care how many people were pulling out their phones to get a picture of all the blood. Hell. You even stopped for them.

You hated how it had broke your heart when she came up to him and put her arms around his neck when you were trying to talk it out, how bad you cried when you realized that you let him get close then tear you down. And you figured that maybe if you hardened your heart, it wouldn't happen again.

Then the walls came tumbling down when she figured out you loved her, and when she told you "she didn't care." You cut yourself again and again because to you, those words meant something totally different then how she meant them.

You remember how it was pouring the day Destiny left, and how fitting it felt to stand out in sorrow's rain and cry and let it purify and wash away what you thought were lies and mistakes. It was absolutely beautiful for him to see you out in the rain like that, head tipped back and black hair slicked to your temples. White t-shirt soaked through to show your purple bra and all he could think was,


And you don't even like him. As a friend, sure, but not int the sense he's looking for. The first time you stood out in the rain, you danced. He said you danced like a gypsy, slow and enticing, but fast and sinful. You said you had forgotten yourself and now it was ruined. The conversation ended there.

It was rather uneventful, your life. Except maybe when your dog died or when you tried to kill yourself because of them. You never were the happy-go-lucky kind, always slightly depressed no matter what. You would have these little ghostly whispers in the back of your mind;

'Just give it up. You know you want to die.'


'Nobody likes you.'

These tender caresses of doubt would tide you over for a week and a half, except maybe when your friends noticed and attempted to cheer you up. You never once told them about why you were depressed. And they quickly discovered that there was a 'something' in "nothing".

You try to think of the time when you had something better to do besides hide in your advisory class and hide from your friends for fifteen minutes. But all you can recall is how she made up the 'Unicorn Hallway' and you two managed to get a group of eighth graders to look up at the ceiling, looking for something that never existed in the first place.

And, actually, you can't think of anything else except how her eyes sparkled the same way, whether she laughed or she cried. Or how her hair was as dark as night, even with blonde streaks in it. Which reminds you of a sun showing it's first rays of morning light. You know you're not claustrophobic or mute, but the walls seem to be closing in and you've lost your will to speak.

You don't want to see them, to tell them nothing's wrong and put on a fake smile, because if you do, you'll be killing yourself and giving everyone else whiplash. If you do see them, you'll tell them that you're going mute again, for real this time.

Going mute is better than telling them that you laid on your road for an hour last night in all black while it was pouring, and waited for a car - any car at all - to come and run you over, hard. It's better than telling them you love them but not yourself and that you're cutting again. God, anything but that. And the worst thing is that you thought, as soon as that glass ripped open flesh,

'She would be so proud of me.'

Even though you know she'd be the first one to yell at you and hit you for it. And God, you wonder how she is. Because you know that you're lonely even with all your friends and she had to move back to her old friends. Then you wonder if you're her 'old friends' now. You look out the frosty window and you remember how she found that note the day you attempted suicide, on the bathroom floor, and how she thought it was the wrong thing. It said:

"You'll do fine without me."

You meant in Saginaw, not dead. But that's what she saw it as and you both cried for your own reasons. You told her you loved her and she gave you a hug and you let her tears soak your shirt as you sent up a silent prayer to the God you're not sure is even listening.

But you figured out what is wrong with you.

You're lonely.

No one could ever fix that. On your darkest hour, on your darkest day, you realized what was real and make-believe.

So many fuck-ups and mistakes. And you don't even want to fix them. You don't want to fix them because that would mean remembering them and feeling those feelings again. Thinking those thoughts.

I don't think I can do that.

© Copyright 2018 Cayli Ann. All rights reserved.

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