The Yellow LinesA Story by Sophie inspred by the thumbnail
“Never cross that road.” They told me. “Never go over those yellow lines.” I broke too many rules with my existence, so I didn't want to break another one. I nodded, my fiery red curls bouncing, blue eyes wide. People didn't have curly hair. And it wasn't supposed to be red, either. Before I could talk, people thought I was blind, because eyes weren't supposed to be blue, only brown. When I turned seven, I asked the question. Curiosity is wrong as well. “Momma, why can't I cross the road? It doesn't look bad.” “We don't talk to the people on the other side honey, now stop asking questions.” “Yes, Momma.”
**
“Never cross that road.” They told me. “Never go over those yellow lines.” I followed too many rules with my existence, but this was one I knew I had to follow. I nodded, my straight brown hair falling into my brown eyes. My mother was always disappointed in me, her son. I knew she wanted a boy with blonde hair, or black hair, like her own, but I ended up like the Others. The people across the yellow lines. We, the Somebodies, don't have rules. Except for that one, no going over the yellow line. The Others have so many rules, I think they may even regulate their breathing.
**
When I was ten, I noticed the boy in the window. He had brown hair and brown eyes, strange, for the Somebodies. His eyes widened as he saw me, and then he disappeared from the window, leaving me to stare at the blank room once more. That night, his house had a party. There was this weird sound blasting from it. Sounding like a person contorting their voice, making it high and low and long and short. What is that? I try imitating it, and my mother walks in. “Elizabeth, stop singing.” “But it's so much fun!” “Stop it. It is illegal. You want to have fun? Go wash the dishes.” “Momma, that's not fun!” I protest. “Do what I said! Can't you just follow the rules like everyone else?!” Momma shouts. Her hair is going grey, though she's only thirty-five. I suppose that's my fault as well.
**
I was ten when I first saw her. How could I not have seen her before? Her hair was so bright and vivid. And I could see the color of her eyes from across that wretched road. I left the window, startled. I wasn't the only different one? There is a party tonight. “Mom, I'm tired, please send them home.” I cry, tears leaking out of my eyes. “Have some fun, Xavier! Why can't you just be normal?” She asks. “I don't know.” I wonder if the girl with the red hair has this problem.
**
When I was fifteen, I watched him and his friends walk onto the road. They pushed each other, laughing. I haven't laughed in a long time, when I lost my childhood, and the sense of humor that comes with it. He walked toward the line, taking one big step. His friend follows, taking a step after him, until they're both at the very edge. Then they stop, and turn back. How I long to do that. I continue to watch, long after the boy has gone inside. But it is late when he emerges again, alone this time. He walks straight up to the line and sits down, criss cross in front of it, staring at my window, where he knows I am hiding. Momma and Papa are asleep. They won't know. I tiptoe down the stairs and out the door. I sit directly across from him, on my side of the yellow lines. We sit there in silence, just staring at each other. Both of us seemingly born on the wrong side of the lines.
**
She's sitting across from me. The girl with red hair. All we do is stare at each other. We're forbidden to speak, forbidden to touch, but so much passes between our eyes. All of the years o self loathing, of not fitting in. That is common between us. Her pained blue eyes tell me her story in vivid detail, and I'm sure mine do the same. I touching the line on my side of the street absentmindedly, what a silly boundary. It can't stop me from doing anything. But why does it? What is so wrong about the perfectly normal girl across from me?
**
I am seventeen, when I finally speak to him. Every night since that first night, we've sat in the same spot. For two years now, getting as close touching as we dare. These are my first words to him: “My name is Elizabeth.” These are his first words to me: “My name is Xavier.” Then these come from my mouth: “I love you.” Then these from his: “I love you too.” I stand up then, suddenly, and he does the same. We both lean, our feet still on our respective sides of the street. Our mouths meet in the middle in a kiss. Nothing but our mouths are touching, that is until, I wrap my arms around his neck and he pulls us closer together.
**
The doors to our houses open in unison, and our mothers come out, holding identical shot guns. They pull the trigger at the same time. We are both dead at the same time, our hands clutching each other. My body collapses onto the Other side of the yellow lines, and her body collapses on the Somebodies' side. Our hands still hold each other's, resting on the thick lines painted on the pavement. © 2012 SophieAuthor's Note
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Added on August 5, 2012Last Updated on August 5, 2012 Author
Sophie-, MAAboutI'm 16 in my sophomore year of high school, I started on this site when i was 14, took about a year break and now i might be back, im just fixing my description because i was annoying as f**k last yea.. more..Writing
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