An Educational Institution

I wrote this a very very long time ago

Dasani.  IT is what I see.  I see the water bottle.  I am looking at a speck of matter, a part of the universe.  I myself am a speck.  A tiny, little speck, invisible to the universe.  Invisible to the world.  I am invisible.  I watch the people around me.  Geometry, I think this class is, but I can never be sure.  The one who teaches has a red stick in her hand.  The stick is making marks on a white sheet.  I watch the pen.  It moves, back and forth, around.  Side to side. The stick hypnotizes me and I go into a trance.
     I am sitting on sand, tiny specks of tan earthen material.  I listen to the breath of the water, the ocean, its waves which hit the earthen material steadily.  The only thing that will never change, the only thing I can trust.  There is a bird flying overhead and I conclude that it must be a seagull.  Seagulls fly.  I want to be a seagull.  I want to fly, too, away from this quintessential "perfection" into which I was thrust, away from this abombidable place.  I shall leave behind my anger and fly away from it, away from this class with the Dasani water bottle and the red-stick teacher, away from the yelling and hatred.  But I, to, have hatred.  I have hatred for this life and hatred toward the fact that I have no one to whom I can target it.  It just is.
     "Elizabeth!"  I unwillingly break my gaze from the waves and look up.  THe woman with the red stick is thrusting someting at me with a stern expression on her face.  It is a paper.  She moves on when I take the paper and hangs a girl behind me her paper.  They both smile.  Looking at my paper, I see that the letter is "F" and the number is 27.
      When I get home my mother is on the sofa, drinking Jim Beam.  Ever since my father died, she has turned to alcohol to try to numb herself.  She, very much like I, does not want to feel the pain of waking up every day.  I, too, numb myself, but not with alcohol.
       She does not greet me and I do not greet her.  This is how we live.  The house is not messy, though neither of us clean it.  It looks untouched, unlived in.  It is untouched, unlived in.  Like a museum.  A museum of pain.
     I go to my room.  NObody is allowed in here except for me. Ha, not that there are other people who would want to come in.  My mom does not bother trying to talk to me, and vice versa.  My room has an adjoining bathroom; we used to have money, before my dad died.  We also used to have food on the table.  Good food, not Easy-Mac and Ramen Noodles.  i think my favorite was my dad's guacamole, but I can never be sure.  He was a great cook.  Sometimes I try to recreate his dishes, but he did not write down his recipes.  He always said, "I will write them down before I die, but NOW is fro living!"  But he died.  I carved a heart into my wrist to represent my love for him.  The paperclip, though was not sharp; i had to press extra hard.  The hart bled, slowly, then quickly, dripping down my arm, across my hand, and onto the floor.  I didn't want to bandage it.  I like seeing my blood and feeling pain.  It makes me know I am still alive, like it or not.  I don't want to be alive.  And in fact, all I want to do is die.  Float away, slip away.
     I had a friend when I was small, very small, named Thomas.  He was smart, pure, kind...but he moved away.  Away from me to San Francisco, because his father had to have a job transfer.  He left me alone in Miami and is all the way across teh country now.  Not that he could possibly care or even remember me now.  Even if he did remember me, if he saw me he would have the utmost hatred.  I have changed, I know it.  I was a bubble of joy and happiness, and now I am a dead, rotten potato.  I can barely get up in the morning, and in fact sometimes I do not.  My mother does not care.   Yes, it is called "skipping," but I do not care.  The ISS has no effect on me.
   I go to sleep and dream that I am in a rocket-ship.  It is rocket-powering me away from the terrors and angers and pain in the world. I look at the pilot and see that it is Thomas, or at least how I imagine him now.  In my head, Thomas is wonderful, understanding, beautiful.  His dark-blond hair falls gently into his face and he sweeps it away by flipping his head.  Then I look closer.  Thomas is now my dad.  I reach out to him to touch him, is he really there? It felt so real, but so unreal at the same time.  As I reach closer, he hisses at me and starts bleeding, everywhere, and a hole appears in his chest.  I woke up screaming and crying.
     Today I have a class in the computer technology lab.  We are to write a story.  This assignment is for English class and my teacher is Mr. Yurick.  Mr. Yurick is the only teacher that I can stand.  he likes me because, as he says, i "have a gift of writing." This is because I write stories, which I myself think nothing highly of.  I write them about anything and everything, getting lost in the sea of words and emotion; I live in my stories, I breathe in them and I take them in like food or water, I need them to survive otherwise I will suffocate, choke, and wither into a skeleton.  I write to get away and I live in a completely different world in which I make up however I want to.  I forget anything and everything and I am free, free as a bird and fast as a bullet.
                        a bullet.
     They had found a bullet in my father's chest.  That was how they concluded it was suicide, because the gun, which had been our family's "protection gun" had been removed from his hiding spot, the top of his closet, and had his fingerprints and only his on it.  "For protection only," he had said. "To keep our family safe."
                             Now he is inside my head

Author's Note

ignore typos please

Reviews

[Kira]

o.0

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Wow.