That used to be me.A Story by Samantha Lynn
He gently caressed her sides as
his chin rested on her shoulder. She giggled at the feeling that tickled her
sides. She elbowed him back due to this said feeling. He giggled in return at
her happiness but didn’t stop touching her. He pulled her tighter, his eyes
closing to the happiness that filled him. He felt warm. He felt happy, and,
most of all, he felt that there was nothing in the world that could make him
happier. She wasn’t any different. As he
was caressing her sides the way he did, she tugged at his shirt. It was as if
she were trying to pull him as close to her as possible. She wanted that.
Anyone could see this want that stretched between them; their want for each
other looked as tangible as the clothes on their very bodies, colorful and soft
as cotton.
That
used to be me. He used to hold me like that, and I sometimes I like to wonder
if he is picturing me instead of her when he does these things. I wish that was
the way it happened, but I know deep in the back of my mind that this is not
true. He doesn’t love me anymore. I guess I tell myself this in the hopes that
he would prove me wrong, but that is never going to happen either. Third period is my most hated class now
because of him and this girl. Everything that has happened is his fault, not
mine. I didn’t do anything but care for him in ways that hurt immensely when we
were apart. All I feel now is a pain that aches inside my stomach. It hurts to
come to this class and be in this class. It hurts to see those two together,
the holding each other in an embrace that shows they love each other. I don’t
understand. I just don’t understand why he just dumped me to the side and for
her at that.
It
isn’t like she is a bad person. In fact, she used to be my best friend. I still
feel that link between us. The friendship line has just faded out a little like
an pair of worn jeans, old and raggedy. I guess I tell myself it is their fault
to make myself feel better. It is probably more my fault than theirs.
Everything usually ends up like this. Something happens, they fight with me,
and in the end, everything that happened is my fault and I am the one left with
the blame and the guilt that eats me up inside.
I
can’t really hear what they are saying to each other. His soft lips caress her
ears as the quietness of the words fill her mind and his touch warms her body.
I feel my body shiver at the sight, feeling as if he is doing these things to
me and not her.
I
look away from the horrifying image. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t sit here
and watch them love each other the way that they do. That used to be me. It
used to be me that got held in such ways! Why doesn’t he love me anymore? I
miss out friendship! I miss talking to him every day! I miss hearing his voice!
I miss his touch! I miss his warmth! I miss his entirety! I miss him.
“I
have to use the bathroom!” I didn’t mean to shout this at the teacher. I never
mean to yell, but my thoughts were clouding my mind in ways that hurt to think
about. I can see that he was shocked at my sudden change in tone and by looking
around the room I see all eyes are on me. It makes me nervous.
“That is fine. Go,” he told me
in the caring, kind tone he always uses with me and I ran out the class room.
My body’s heat heightened as my arms accidentally brushed against his. His eyes
try to find mine but my eyes are closed as I rush out of the classroom, groping
around for the doorway as if lost in a dark forest.
I can feel the pain inside my
chest burn as if it is trying to push its way out of my body. It hurts to feel
this. I feel it every second of the day actually and most days I just lay in
bed and let the pain take over. I don’t even bother to cover up. I lay there,
the cold air of the huge, box fan blowing against every inch of my body. Goosebumps
tend to take over as well but I have done this so often that I have come
accustomed to it. It doesn’t bother me anymore like it used to. When I do that
now, it actually feels good. I take in the shivery feeling.
I am in the bathroom. The walls
surrounding me are covered in some sort of green substance that could resemble
boogers and many shades of chipping brown from art students rushing in to wash
the drying paint off their hands. I remember this bathroom. None of the doors
lock, and my favorite stall happens to be the second from the right so I rush
into this one.
By now tears are covering my
cheeks at an excessive rate that I cannot seem to stop. My eyes are a crimson
red.
Get it together,
As I pressed my elbows into my
thigh a sharp pain came out, pulling me to reality. I jolted up right. My thigh
was burning and it reminded me of what was there. I stuck my hand in my pocket
that lay over my thighs and ran the fabric and my fingers along the cuts that
cover my leg. It was rough, scars trying to heal themselves. There really isn’t
any use for them to heal. I will just end up cutting them open once I get home.
The cuts should stop trying to heal but I cannot control what my body does to
me, or what I do my body. It is as if a
demon possesses me at certain moments in time, moments when I cannot seem to
control my emotions, and my mind blacks out as it takes over. I can’t stop
anything. I can’t control what I do, or what I say, or how I do it.
“Lynn, what did you use?” I can feel my mind turning to one flash back
in particular, a couple weeks ago.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” My old self said to my mother. I remember this
day. My mother came in and asked me what I used to harm my body. Even if I did
harm my body, I don’t know why she got so upset. It is not like anybody cared,
right? My body, my life.
“Are you telling me that you didn’t use anything to do this to
yourself? It just showed up at your own free will?”
“Of course not, b-” she had stopped me from finishing my sentence.
“But you are not going to tell me anything, are you? I have to turn into
one of those mothers who doesn’t care what her daughter does? Is that what you
want from me? I don’t want that. I don’t want any of this at all.” She held my
wrist the whole time she nagged me. I had tried to pull away from her touch but
it seemed that the more I tried to loosen her grasp, the tighter her fingers
wrapped around themselves. After a while of her yelling at me and obviously not
letting go, I just gave up trying.
You can’t just sit here the rest of your life. I thought to myself. But
I can’t go out there looking like this either. What is wrong with me? It is
just a guy. I had to pull myself together. When I walked out of the stall a
couple minutes or so later, I let out a sigh of relief to the fact that I was
alone, but gasped to the sight in the mirror when I looked into it. The girl
looking back at me looked completely unlike herself. Her face was a bright red
and her hair was a bit matted up as if she had just rolled out of bed about
five minutes ago. I stand there for a couple minutes just staring at myself,
watching the many colors of my face shade back to normal.
You can do this, I tell myself. You can do this, I repeat and I repeat
this to myself as I rush back to class.
“Yeah, I saw that episode too!” I hear her
voice echo through the silence in the library as she enters with four other
people. I am in the Library for lunch. I wouldn’t really call it a lunch period
for me because of the fact I am not even eating lunch, and not in the
cafeteria. I never eat lunch. Better yet, I am never hungry enough to eat
anything, but a lot of people do that. A lot of people just don’t eat lunch.
It’s her, the best friend that
used to be. She looks at me but brushes away the eye contact as if dust in the
wind. The group of friends make their way to a vacant table that sits on the
other side of the library and the way she sits down makes it seem she picked
that table to watch me discretely from a distance. That can’t be why she sat
there. It is probably just in my head.
Focus on your work, Lynn, I think to myself. I am working on a
project for my English class. I try to fully focus my attention on my project
but I feel a shiver go through my body when I feel someone is watching me. I
look up to see that the table of girls are all staring directly at me, but when
we all make eye contact they just look away as if it never happened. Part of me
wants to go over there and ask them what their problem is, but I already know
the answer. They would just laugh at me.
“She
is so stupid!” One of the girls is talking at a volume way too loud to be appropriate
for a school library.
“You
know what I think? I think she kind of looks like a British man! Maybe she
really is a man, and she is just good at hiding it. Well, actually, there is
not much to hide really, because her face looks as if it got ran over with a
steam roller when she was a kid!” The same girl says, using the same volume and
tone. I look over the table with some interest into who she must be talking to
if she has to talk so loud.
When
I look up, the girl, who had originally said the comments, looks at me and
smirks.
They are talking about me, I think to
myself. Why would they be talking about
me? I look over at my ex-best friend, and she is looking right at me, a
sort of sympathy peeking out of her eyes, covered by a smile that says she is
laughing with them. I can’t let them get to me. This charade went on for the
rest of the period, and I rushed out as fast as I could, making sure to avoid
all eye contact, to pre-calculus.
The
rest of my day went by in a big blur. It was all just one big blur that I
cannot seem to remember the slightest. I slept the way home through my usual,
daily, hour long bus ride and I do not even remember getting off and walking
down my driveway. Better yet, I don’t remember going straight to my bed once I
got their either. The next thing I remember is waking up at 10:00 PM. I guess
my mom didn’t bother to wake me up. I am still fully dressed in my skinny
jeans, an old pair of Van’s shoes the same shade as dark denim, and plain coral
colored, V-style t-shirt I bought from the mall on clearance. I kick off my
shoes and listen as they loudly bang against the floor and I just lay on my
bed, no covers, and I stare up at the glowing stars on my ceiling, illuminating
the room with neon green. I don’t bother to turn the lights on because there
really is no use in getting up at this moment. I know I have some homework to
do, but I don’t think that one day of not doing the work will hurt me too badly.
I have dealt with worse. As if on cue I feel a wetness form on my cheek. My
hands wipe away the tears, and I think back to what I remember of the day. The
memories flood my mind all at once.
I
couldn’t even look him in the eyes when we touched. I can remember feeling
everything: sadness worse than death, anger worse than revenge, a depression
worse than the kind someone takes pills to forget about. Why am I even crying
right now? He doesn’t deserve my tears.
None of them do. I wipe the fallen tears from my cheeks and I strip down
to change to my pajamas. Once my pants are off I look down at my thighs and
examine the healing scars that cover my legs in the most discrete places. They
burn when I touch them but I like that pain. I cover the open wounds with my
hands and I take in the burning feeling.
“She is just faking it, you know
that right?” I remember listening in on a certain conversation that I will not
forget. It was during lunch. I had left to go to the bathroom just like I
usually do when no one is looking, just to be alone because I cannot stand
being around people anymore. The same girls that were in the library were just
around the corner of the hallway. I knew they were talking about me. They even
used my name.
“Ok, how do you know that she is?
I mean, you don’t know what is going on up in that head of hers,” One of the
girls replied with. I slightly smiled at the fact that this one girl had partly
stood up for me, but frowned at the following response of my ex-best friend.
“She does this to get attention.
I mean, seriously. She started that fight because she just could not stand the
sight of me with Adam. She couldn’t take us being friends, so she started this
whole thing just to push us apart. It is a good thing that Adam likes me way
better than her because in the end, she was the one who got pushed away.” It
was at this point when I could feel my face burning to let the tears fall.
“Why would Adam like you better?
He was her friend too. He loved her.”
“Oh, he did not love her. He only
told her that because she did everything that he said when he talked to her
like this. He really hates her.” I started silently crying at this point. My face
was turning red, the most painful of tears falling down my cheeks.
“I don’t think that is true. I
think he had real feelings for her.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. She
is leaving us alone. What’s done is done.” My ex-best friend said.
“She is in my physics class and I
noticed some marks on her wrists that showed when she took her jacket off or
something. I think she is hurting herself.” The girl who said this sounded
surprised.
“Like I said: attention. She does
it to get attention. I remember telling her that I cut, and she just laughed at
me. She just laughed in my face. I am happy that she cuts. Maybe it will teach
her a lesson or two about what is funny and what isn’t.” At this point, I
wanted to turn around that corner and say that all she was telling these girls
was a lie. She doesn’t cut herself. In fact, she has even told me that she
finds it stupid and a waste of time. If anyone should be looked down on in this
way, it is her. Not me. She is the one who laughed at me when I told her about
my mother being sick again. She laughed at me when I told her about me and
Adam. She said it was stupid that I felt these feelings of mine. She said even he
was way out of my league.
“You don’t cut?” One of the girls
asked with a questioning sort of tone.
“Nope. Not at all.”
“You little liar.” The girls she
was talking with were just laughing with her. They weren’t sticking up for me.
They were laughing in my face as if I were an ugly dog or something. I ran
straight into the bathroom after that. I didn’t come out the rest of the day
because I couldn’t stop the crying that escaped me every second.
I can’t take this anymore. I
cannot take all the ridicule, and the laughing, and the being made fun of, and
the fact that everyone hates me. I just can’t do this anymore. Looking at my
desk I see a bracelet. It sits next to a bottle filled to the brim with some
pills I have never noticed before. I had made the bracelet for Adam and after I
found out he betrayed me, I took it off his wrists and kept it. I made this
bracelet as a sign or our friendship, our love. He didn’t deserve it. Tears run
down my cheeks. My hands start to shake violently. The red, green, and yellow
colored string the bracelet was made of fill my mind and all I can think of is
Adam and his hate for me. She hates me too. They both hate me.
The
bracelet was on my wrist now and I played with it between my fingers, feeling
the soft and worn feeling it sent across my skin. As the bottle of pills filled
my system, engulfing me, the last thing I remember is the sight of Adams bracelet
intertwining in my fingers. The room went black.
© 2013 Samantha LynnAuthor's Note
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