Self Destructive & Unproductive

constructive

shit. shit shit shit. I hate social outings. I hate being social in general. but doing it.......out? that's worse. shit.
plus I'm late.
well, I'm always late.
for everything. nothing new.
my life is a series of being late for different commitments strung together by time. I'm a mess, in all honesty.

my hands clench into fists in the pockets of my dad's old jacket. I hate this jacket. it's not even a nice looking jacket. it's one of those ridiculous 80's windbreakers with the loud pink-teal-purple block coloring. I used to love it. it was the only thing I wanted to wear for years. when I was finally big enough to walk on my own, I started wearing it. he let me wear it all through elementary school because he thought it was cute how it was down to my ankles and my arms turned into flappers like a penguin. my mom would try to roll it up but the rolls ended up as big as tires and was counterproductive in trying to increase my range of movement. when I started middle school, my dad told me I couldn't wear it anymore. he hid it from me. I pouted for days. I found it the summer before I started high school and re-hid it in my own closet. I wore it to school the first day it was cold enough for a jacket. when I came home, he flipped. he told me, "girls don't wear jackets like that, you look absolutely ridiculous! you look like a man. you look fat. you can't wear that to high school," all while trying to pry it off me. I punched him in the jaw. I wear it every day now.

it does nothing to stop the wind from hitting right through my skin and freezing my already cold heart. dramatic? yes. I don't care. I could feel frost spreading through my chest. it's almost March. its a no from me. this Friday would be identical to any other, except for the fact that my foot is freezing. there's a hole in the bottom of my sneaker as of homeroom today, and the last shred of my sock is about to rip. the cement of the sidewalk pulls the material apart like kids around a pizza, taking all but one, to fight over later.

The people I'm headed to meet, my friends (or so I call them), are already there, out in front of Alisha's apartment, waiting for me. they are the only people I talk to. the only people I'm allowed to talk to. I don't mind that, though. there is no one else I have an interest in being involved with. if I didn't have them, I would have no one. it's not that I necessarily enjoy their company or ever want to talk to them, but I do because I have to.

They're there, Marcus and Alisha that is, leaning on Alisha's car, which is vibrating with the bass as it shakes the doors so hard they might fall off. they're more than accustomed to my being late. Marcus opens the back of the SUV for me with a, "sup kid?" and I climb in, avoiding eye contact. Marcus shuts it behind me, obliviously trapping my shoe lace, and hops in shotgun next to Alisha as the car starts moving. the car's full. Smack and Hecker are in the second row, mumbling things to each other over the music and cracking up about it every couple seconds. Tommy and Emerald are in the back row, and I rest my chin on the back of my hands as I lean over the back of the middle seat.

"where's Logan?" i ask the car. Logan usually sits in the empty seat I'm leaning on. tommy and emerald are the only ones who hear me, looking up from their phones in unison.

"didn't show," emerald says simply, and they both returned to tapping away on their screens. it bugs me that I'm still sitting very back, even though Logan's seat's empty, but I quickly decide to keep my mouth shut about it. I know I'm lucky to even be in the car with them. I sigh and lean against the back door, tilting my head back against the cool glass of the window and gazing sleepily out the small strip of sunroof above Smack and Hecker. the sun's about to set already. I hate winter. I hate winter and ugly jackets and talking to people and being late all the time.

despite the fact they all have a good 5 or 6 years on me, we get along well. I can't make friends at school. anyone older or younger than me by about 3 years is off limits. I can't connect with them. the things they are interested in, the things they care about, I just don't give a shit about any of it. boys? or girls, in Alisha's case? I do better alone. no distractions. outfits? no. why does that matter anyway? honestly. it's just stuff that you put on your body. we should all go nude, in my opinion. oh, you tried a new eye makeup routine? who gives a fuck. you got highlights?ive never cared less about anything in my life. what did you say you were doing over break? oh wait. I don't care. Don't get me wrong, I used to be the same way. when I was 8. now, could go on for hours about how depressingly irrelevant everything is that comes out of the mouths of each person at my school. but I don't have the time. I try not to dwell on why unimportant things are unimportant and just brush them off as so.

so why is it that I spend the little patience I have for social situations with a bunch of twenty-somethings instead of people my own age? well like I said, I don't get along with people my age, and it's not my choice anyway. but there's a sad little back story as to how I even got into this situation, and why my parents don't force me to do anything different. see, I used to have this friend. his name was Jack. a dull name that didn't suit him. he was anything but dull. he should have been a Dimitri or a Donovan. something that brought to mind words like dangerous and dauntless. daring. dark. defiant. demonic. dominant. determined.
yes.
he definitely should have had a d-name.
he had been friends with my brother, Theo, or T, when they were in high school. I was still in middle school. when Jack would come over before they headed out, we always seemed to end up making out against the hood of his car before they left. I don't know why. why me, I mean. as far as I know, and I know pretty far, he wasn't involved with anyone else. he totally could have been, if he wanted. he was a god. I was ...eh.
I still am eh, and that's on a good day.
looking, I mean. I have enough going on in my mind to satisfy a room of the country's top scholars. and I care. about everything. I just care. anyway, Jack didn't know that. we didn't talk. we just made out all the time. (nothing more than that, physically, I feel like I should add.) we didn't talk. but we didn't need to. I didn't say much to T either. not for any reason, we just had a silent relationship. we got along well like that.
Jack and T died.
actually, that's not true.
Jack died. he hung himself.
the image of his stupid limp body rocking gently from side to side against the stupid telephone pole, way up high above the frozen ground, has been playing as a background to every other thought I've had since I saw it. on his back, he had painted, "this is not a statement" in black. I still don't know if it was sarcasm or not. im just mad that I was the first one to see it. the only one to see it. very inconsiderate of him to not think of the scarring affect it would have on me. poor little 14 year old me. i was just wandering around some back street Jack had taken me down before one morning, and bam. there it was. my stomach flipped inside out. i didn't react. I called 911 as soon as i came across it. and then I walked away. I never saw him again. i didn't cry once. I didn't even go to his funeral. I would have if T did, but by that time, T was long gone as well. just up and left, right before Jack died. im fairly sure T is dead as well. the police say that we shouldn't lose hope as the haven't found a body, but c'mon. it's been like.. almost 3 years. my mom still makes calls a few times a week to the local police department. I feel bad. she even tried to hire a private investigator. like we could afford that. im sad for her. but personally, I hardly notice his absence. I can't even remember seeing T for the last time. I didn't really care. I was closer with his friends than I was with him anyway. a week or two later I found a stupid note in the pocket of my dads stupid fucking jacket.
quite poetic, isn't it? is all it said. I considered the fact that it could have been from T, but it obviously made much more sense to have come from Jack. he had to be talking about his non-statement-making suicide method, right? right. I don't know why he left that note for me. he was was probably drunk or some shit. he didn't care about me. why would he leave his suicide note in my pocket? nope. I convinced myself that he wanted to care for me, though, and that must be why he left it. he felt like he had to, he felt like it was what people were supposed to do when they committed suicide. leave a deep message for their... best friends younger sister that they're kinda into. I would like to say love interest, but it's hard to love someone you don't talk to.
I didn't even keep it.
I threw it out.
nobody knows any reasons behind either of their exits. but it's better that way, i think. so anyway, I was "friends" with Jack, and he was friends with T, and this was their crowd, the people i'm currently traveling 60 miles an hour down the highway with. off to the city with my dead friend's other friends. classy.