A cry to the masses.

A Story by Melody Barnes

This was something that wandered my thoughts and I just ended up venting about it.

For the past month I had been bickering with myself on whether to write this book or not. Whether to open up to the savage public eye about myself. When you hear that you must be thinking “Oh! Juicy secrets from her.” But a warning to you, it’s not. I made this book for myself. Not for you, not for entertainment of the masses. I wrote this for myself, to release the very thing that pains me every day, every minute, every second. The very thing that makes my heart skips a beat when I hear about it. It’s the very thing that knocks me into a whirlwind of uncontrollable tears.

I didn’t do anything wrong. I can swear to you that, but there I was by myself, for the first time. Seven years old, and not sure on whether I should speak or not. At a young age no one knows the reasons for rejection so maybe I had done something wrong, but I’m not sure. I went up to her, a girl of my age, while she plays pretend on the toy kitchen set. I wanted to play with her, anyone really.

I remember asking her politely as I could. I said “Can I play please?” My voice had just shrieked when she pushed me away from her. No, I wasn’t ignored, I was pushed literally. On to the floor I seemed to be, without any clue on why. I just remember those violent eyes staring back at me on the floor. That’s when I knew, right then and there, this was going to happen again. Most children don’t, but I did. All I remember is my body shaking and crawling away from her like some pathetic slug. Crawling, like some kind of abused dog.

I knew I was going to be crawling like that for a while. I knew I was going to spend some time picking up the pieces of friendships and I knew my life was going to be emotional rollercoaster after another. The aching was just beginning, all this known before it even started, at the age of seven.

It continued, at eight the children had already begun to understand that out casting was the best way to help someone feel lonely. Gym class was the perfect example. We were told we would run around the parking lot as our warm up. Never was going to bother me until I realized everyone was running ahead of me, and when I came close to someone they would scream and said “don’t touch me monster.” And they sped ahead of me. I stopped running immediately and felt a throw up feeling in my stomach, the air seemed to disappear, and tears wouldn’t come out. I just wanted to scream, I just wanted to run away. All through my year of being eight the kids in school called me a monster until I finally asked towards the last day.

“Why am I the monster?”

“Because you don’t look like us.” He said. I won’t name him, cause it would be too obvious to him it was him. But, when he said that, that throw up feeling came back again as I looked around to see everyone, they were all darker than me. I was the lightest one and called me the monster because I didn’t have ebony skin.

“But, that’s not my fault.” I quietly answered.

“Yes it is.” He responded. Before I could counter him, he rain towards the toy trains and whispered something to the others about how the monster was being stupid.

Only thing I could think of was how horrible I was. I didn’t know I could choose how I wanted to be, I had always thought I couldn’t. I always thought I couldn’t change. But immediately instead of trying to become darker, I ended up just teary eyed again. My hands began to get shaky and I threw over the chair I was sitting in. The children, all 16 of them look back at me, watching as I had my first breakdown.

“I AM NOT A MONSTER. I AM NOT A MONSTER.” I screamed. I wanted to throw something, I wanted to just burst into flames and light them all on fire, but instead one of the girls came towards me and wrapped her hands around my throat tightly. Such a squeeze she had. I wasn’t too surprised she was the man girl of their little group and never had a problem with it.

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move, for just that second, my body was refusing to fight her back. I wasn’t too good at fighting anyway, but My body just wasn’t responding. My eyes where turning red and the small gasps of the children began to fade out. I thought I was dying, but that’s probably why I scratched her with the semi-long nails I had at the time. I left a small scar on her face. She let me go of course with some monster growl she had.

I calmed myself, caught my breath and ran out of the classroom. Screaming down the hallway, I caught two or three teacher’s attention. I needed it. Not for sympathy, but for help. I didn’t know what was happening, why I was shaking, why I threw up on the floor right after. Is that what death felt like’ I thought. A part of me said yes, and that she would have been better finishing me off, another part of me said No but you have much worse coming to you like this.

After that, the girl was suspended, and they moved me to a different classroom with a bunch of unsociable kids that refused to talk to me either way. I wasn’t the monster anymore…but I knew the people who were. Teachers tried to talk to me, but instead I showed no emotion. For the three weeks we had left, I never smiled. I was ready to escape for this so called Christian school. This so called place of peace.

After two years, my mother decided that their monstrous behavior was going to ruin me. It was time she took me to a new school. They were nicer, I was still a bit out casted because I was lighter than the rest of them, but I was able to associate with the non closed minded of them. It saddened me to only be able to be there for so long. I was taking to a new school, one that was supposed to be an early training ground for doctors in the ghetto community. Society would get lucky if the kids there weren’t the one in the hospital.

Pfft, I’m one to talk. Had I stayed there any longer I would have ended up in a mental instituon, probably named after me, built for me. They were crueler. I thought I had chance of fitting in because there were other light skinned girls there, but that was a lie. They all expected me to talk in slang in which (no offense to people who speak it) but was a downgrade of ones intelligence. So I never used it, I never understood it either. From time to time I tried saying it in the mirror, the slang I mean. I just couldn’t pull it off, so I gave up on trying.

Sooner or later people started to single me out because I was per say “proper white girl.” But I wasn’t white. But there was no other moment where I wished more. If I was white, I could hang with the white people and they wouldn’t look at me weird. I always thought I would look pretty as a white girl. This was also the time I thought white people acted the most proper, and had the most reasons and perfect opinions. This was also around the time when white people who came by the ghetto were extra friendly towards me because I was light skinned and proper. I thought people like them, were angels.

The bullying once again began, but it had an odd way of affecting me. I didn’t cry until I got home, and instead of saying something back, I simply went to the bathroom and threw up. Yes threw up/ Perhaps no one else has that. I didn’t force myself to throw up, it just happened. There were times when I had to swallow it so that people wouldn’t notice I was having a mental breakdown.

Oi. I expected this question. “Have you ever self inflicted during your bullying times?” Of course. I thought cutting was too obvious, too stereotypical. I wanted it to be clever. So I threw myself into walls. It for some reason unstressed me. I did in the basement until the arm and legs got bruises and I couldn’t move any more. After it was all over, I would lay on the futon couch down there and just cry. I thought I will kill myself if I keep doing it. Kill myself? Kill myself?

“What a wonderful Idea.” I shouted. I could get out! I could be free. I didn’t care about what happened in the afterlife, I didn’t care about heaven or hell. In my mind I knew I would go to heaven, I knew earth was hell. Lucifer was walking around earth as demon anyway right? That’s obviously why. It’s his territory. But how would I do it?

Knife? Too obvious. Pills. Also too obvious. Holding breath, worth a shot but my mother would be put at risk of being the one who killed me. So none would work. I just decided I would live it out until the summer. Funny, now that I think about it.

My mother rushed home like she had expected me to be dead. She seemed paranoid and out of it (as per usual) but instead she went upstairs to her room and just sat there looking outside the messed up window of the house.

“Mom?” I asked.

“What would you think if we moved to Texas?” She asked.

I responded with a nod. I wanted to go. But moving? Leaving everything behind? Was god really listening after all? Moving was something I had dreamed of. I had prayed for this day. God had been listening or Karma needed me not to be there when their justified reward came. Either way we were gone. I was free, home free. And ever since, I hadn’t been bullied. Not openly at least.

But I’m no fool to the world. You think I wrote this for pity. But I had my fair share of sympathy. It’s time you show your pity for the people you blindly walk past. The people you step over when they fall. Because you are all bullies, you are all pathetic losers who want someone to point out to make you feel less pathetic; you want someone to help you. But when it’s someone else, you won’t help them. I can’t go to help every single person out casted or bullied, I can’t give them all a warm embrace and tell them ,”just one more day”. I can’t tell them that. But I’m writing this to let them know, I know how that works. I know how being out casted and told you aren’t like “us.” But really? Who is “us”? The cocky bustards that were once d*********s? Who is “us’? The people who freak out over stupid things that will break and shatter? Who the f**k Is “us”? Because honestly we need to have a talk. I need to eliminate “us” for good. He doesn’t belong here, and all his cocky, two faced, shifty followers can go to hell with him