I thought of this about an hour ago during breakfast. Comments and critique, please.
I wake up in the morning in my own bed, in my own room, in the house in which my parents live, love, and raised me, yet I know that it is not my room anymore, it is not love that I receive from my parents anymore, and it is not me that awakens.
I turn over in the bed, and get out. Brushing my teeth, I spit, and then I gargle and spit, three times at least. That's what I do now. I can't help but to do that.
I dress up. I wear nothing but an ugly grey sweater that is three sizes too big, and a thin white t-shirt beneath. I wear modest and unassuming jeans. I brush my hair, but do the bare minimum. I wear no makeup.
I glance in the mirror, and look into my own eyes, and then glance away. It hurts, my reflection hurts, and my clothes are so ugly, but that is what I do now. This is who I am.
I can't help it.
I do not ride the bus to school anymore. For my freshman and sophomore year of high school, I was one of those kids that rode the bus everyday, every damn day. We were always so tired and sleepy in the morning, it was a bit dull. I also rode it the way home, and me and the other girls would just talk and laugh, gossip and have fun. I don't do that anymore. It hurts too much walking down that isle, trying to find a seat that's empty, that I could call mine, and if there is no empty seat, I would have to stand, because neither I nor anyone else wants to sit beside each other.
Sometimes, walking to school, the bus passes me by. I glance away, but I know that they can see me, and it is painful.
Because of walking to school, I have to wake up an hour early. I still don't have my license, and either way, I don't have a car... anymore.
The walk to school is painful, and tiring, but I am improving, maybe. Even so, sweat would stream down my armpits and my face when I arrive, and I would have to wipe it all away to seem normal.
But they all know, and so it doesn't matter what I look like. Nothing matters anymore.
I don't eat breakfast. I go to homeroom, check myself in, and get a seat in the back, in the corner where no one would sit near me. I lie my head down on the table, and could only wait for the bell to ring, for the classes to start.
No teacher calls on me when I raise my hand. Not that I raise my hand, but I would like to know that they would at the very least acknowledge me. They don't ever call on me either. I could just lie my head down and just sleep through all the classes, and for the most part, this is what I do.
I don't sleep, however. It's too hard to sleep, no matter how tired I am. So I listen, understand all the whispers and all the laughs and know that I was once a part of this world before it was taken away from me.
When the teachers call us into groups, I don't do anything. One of the guys glance me over, and seeing that I wasn't pretty, and seemed like I wouldn't do anything, he and the rest just took over, totally ignoring me. When it was time to present, I just stood to the side, and the teachers let me.
When the lunch bell rings, I go to the bathroom, and just conquer myself a stall. I wipe the toilet clean, and sit there, reading a book I had taken from the library. When the lunch bell rings once more, I close the book and leave.
I don't go to lunch. It's too noisy, too crowded, too many people. You have to stand in line, you have to wait, and are jostled around, just for the sake of some green meat surprise by the old lunch ladies. I'd rather not. I hyperventilate when I see that scene. I don't go to lunch.
The rest of the day goes by pretty much exactly the same. Every day goes like this. I hate it... but I'm not going to do anything about it.
When I arrive home, my dad is already home. He lies on the couch, and drinks a beer. He glances at me as I come through the door.
His face wrinkles up, just for a moment, and the human mind understands exactly what he thinks of me.
"Hello," he greets, and goes back to the football game on the television. He drinks his beer, and throws it into the bin beside him. I walk past, and enter my own room. I close the door. I lock the door. And I am done.
When night falls, my parents don't call me to eat dinner. They have not done that since I have arrived back.
This was my day. I cried myself to sleep.
Two months ago, when I came back to school, the girl had asked, "Did it feel good?", to which I punched her out, tore her hair out, and actually bit into her arm, and didn't let go. I had drawn blood.
The principal had scolded me, and had taken the girl to the school nurse. I could only let my blond hair fall down over my head as I looked at my feet. I heard what he said, yet I didn't hear what he said. I can't remember one would of what he had said.
When my parents had came, they had apologized to the principal with hollow words spoken from hollow eyes, and had taken me home. My mom looked at me as if I was an object, as if I hadn't gotten enough of that, as if I was not her child, born from her womb and raised on her milk, but as if I was someone else's child, so that the problem didn't lie on her. Something like this didn't happen in her life, obviously. It just... didn't. She couldn't believe it, so those eyes stared at me as an object, probably less. Most of the time, she refused to even look at me at all.
My dad was much simpler. He just looked at me with disgust.
Three months ago, I had arrived home, and I knew that it would never be my home again, no matter how much I wished. Something had changed. The world had changed somehow, and I was no longer a part of it.
I had changed, somehow, and I didn't fit the world anymore.
No matter what I do, I won't be able to forget. No matter who counseled me, it would always hurt. My teachers won't do anything, they were scared, and it wasn't exactly in their job description. My parents didn't want me, it was too painful for them, and my body was no longer mine. My friends tried to help me, but never got past the first shallow layer.
I wanted someone to understand. I wanted someone to help.
I wanted someone to want to touch me, not my body, but me. But at the same time, I was too scared for them to touch me. What if they harmed me, again? What if they went away, disgusted, like my parents? What if they thought that I and my body were synonymous?
I wanted to touch someone, but I didn't. I wanted someone to understand, but I was scared. I am lacking in confidence, I am not who I am because that was stolen and taken from me. I am lying my way from the truth because it hurts. The memory was all that encompassed me, and I fear that if you touched me, you would understand that, you would understand that it was all that I believed I am. You will feel disgusted, like everyone else.
They had hurt me. He had betrayed me. Taken from my car, they had gagged me. They didn't want me to say anything, to speak anything, because for what they had intended, they didn't need me to do that.
One good fuck.