I nodded and looked down at the damp spot from my drool on the page of my composition.Great.I closed the book and put it in my backpack and zipped it as I stood.
“You feeling okay?” the teacher asked as I headed to the door.
“Yes,” I lied.
Without looking back at him, I began my walk home. My pulse sped up with each step that I took. I didn’t want to go home. I just wanted to die a painless death.
Fourteen years old /9th Grade/September
Isat on the floor of my room between my bed and the nightstand and thumbed through my composition book. This was my favorite place to sit because I felt tight and protected in the small space. It was where I liked to sit to calm myself down after fights with Sebastian or Dad. As I looked through some of my writing, I brought my sore, bleeding knuckle to my mouth. I licked the blood off and then pressed my tongue against the cut.
Every time I peek in the mirror, all I see is a stranger.
He wears a mask to hide from everyone, even me.
Though he’s a complete stranger, I know his story well.
He hides so well that he’s practically invisible.
He’s an embarrassment. A disgrace. A disappointment. A throwaway.
He caused his mother to leave.
He caused his father to resent him.
The cloud hangs over him and follows him.
Kids won’t eat with him, but they stare.
They won’t talk to him, but they whisper.
He knows the answers, but the teachers don’t see him.
No one sees him.
No one knows he might like the same music.
No one knows he might like the same TV shows.
No one knows he might be fun to hang out with.
No one knows much about him.
No one cares to.
And that’s why I only peek in the mirror.
I feel too much when I look at him.
Hideous
Ugly
Grotesque
I can feel it.
The air is thick and heavy with it.
