The Height of Expectations

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sorry felt a bit sad and this is just what came out. So fair warning that it's a bit depressing and has mentions of self harm. It's a bit of a look into how even the smallest of things can hurt people even if no one realises it does. First time I've ever let anyone read anything of mine, so please be nice but constructive criticisms always welcome. x

Submitted: October 03, 2012

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Submitted: October 03, 2012

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Expectations

 

‘I was brought up always being told how intelligent I am, and how I’ll get into the best Universities, and I’ll be able to become whatever I want. I’m capable of becoming a lawyer, doctor, business woman, anything that takes my fancy. The world is my oyster and has nothing to offer but open doors and golden oppertunties.I’ve always been ‘the good child’ and ‘the model student’, and it’s expected that I always will be.

I am now 16 years old... and finding it harder and harder to live up to those expectations.

I go to work; I’m a part time waitress, which is completely normal for a teenager. But sometimes I get the order wrong, or I drop someone’s drink on the table, or I type the wrong thing into the till.

I go to school and get homework, which everyone does. But sometimes I don’t understand what we did in the lesson, but am reluctant to ask for help because that means I’m thick and I don’t get it. Sometimes I forget to do the homework, or I answer the wrong questions, or it’s not as good as it’s expected to be.

I help tidy the house, which is totally understandable. But sometimes I forget to do all of my jobs, or I burn dinner.

I know they’re all little, petty, meaningless things and I shouldn’t really care about. But I do. I’m just – I guess I’m just scared of what people think of me. That they're going to yell at me or that I'll have disappoint edthem, which is possibly worse.

I really do get it that I’m being pathetic and don’t have anything to complain about: I live in a nice apartment in London, with my loving family, I’ve got a great education, I have wonderful friends. I’m not in any danger or being abused or starving or dying. So I’m getting all worked up about nothing, and acting like a spoilt brat or something.

But sometimes it just hurts, okay?

Sometimes I find it hard.

Sometimes I need to punish myself. It’s nothing too bad, just a reminder to do bett...’

Andy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and her mother calling out a greeting. Quickly, she shoved the tear stained letter into the already full shoebox along with the others. Stowing the box in the back of her wardrobe, before furiously scrubbing at her eyes and tugging down the sleeve of her jumper, covering the angry, still bleeding, cut on her arm.

Andy glanced at her reflection in her mirror, grimacing at the tired dark circles under her eyes and patting down her unruly hair, attempting to cover how many times she had tugged it or ran her hands through it in frustration. Finally she painted a smile onto her face and went down stairs. Whenever anyone asked if anything was wrong, she would simply say that she was suffering from another one of her migraines.

Which isn’t a lie, it’s just not really the truth either.

 


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