Faded [ON HOLD]

Part 1

It was a cold, winter day and my fingers were frozen. If I held my hands up in the air and just looked at them for a moment, I could actually see them shivering and my pinkie felt like it was about to fall off. Four fingers was not the look I was going for, I can tell you that.

Of course my parents wouldn't let me turn up the heat because that would, if I am to use technical terms, result in the usage of a more than sufficient amount of electricity which would lead to spending excess money. So an unnecessary wastage of cash. Every time I ask them, their response is always the same, and the answer in simple terms –minus the lecture and their number one quote, money doesn't grow on trees- is no.

At times like this I always feel like asking them, 'isn't it time we stopped acting poor?' But I don't like talking to people so I just keep my mouth shut and freeze. I was gripping a pen writing the note, that you are reading right now, tediously on this piece of paper. I was supposed to write down what was going on in my head every evening from today onwards so she could figure out what was wrong with me.

This was my punishment. Lines. The worst part about this particular punishment was that I wasn't even given a sentence to just write repetitively. I had to come up with the sentences on my own. She said that it would help me learn a new way of expressing how I feel instead of punching walls, throwing books at people or screaming. She thinks that, that's the only communication I resort after one small episode so that's not necessarily true. Now I just prefer not communicating at all.

She said that.............

"She also has a name."

 My counselor was smirking so much even my jaws were twitching but I looked away and held my breath just waiting for her to continue so that we could finish this and I could leave. It's not that I didn't like her; she was actually one of the few people I could bear to stay in the same room with let alone someone who I actually listened to.

"Ryan, what is this?"

I decided to humor her. I quoted her exact words from yesterday and added a few extra words to show her that her idea wasn't the best.

"It's a method of finding a more effective method of communication. Also it's a book. Something you write stuff in."

"Exactly. It's not a punishment, it's a......"

"Project." I muttered grumpily. "Everything we do is a project."

She dropped the professional air and clasped her hands together and waited in silence. I could see from her eyes that she wasn't planning on continuing the project until I spoke again. So I just turned around and touched the door knob meaning to leave, thinking that she would stop me but she didn't. I hesitated a few seconds wishing I had looked before I leaped and finally I opened the door and left, letting it swing and close by itself with a slight bang instead of gently pushing it shut like I'd seen other kids do.

I made my way to my locker and dragged out an oversized hoodie which I kept in there for special occasions. Something I could just lose myself in and snuggle into without being exposed. It was annoying that my counselor wasn't in the least predictable. I was waiting for her to snap or just stop me but she just let me leave and I'm pretty sure she was smiling the whole while like she knew I was uncomfortable.

It sucked that she knew me so well. It made me feel vulnerable. That is to say, more vulnerable than usual. It also sucked because I respected her. I admired her because she understood me. I knew that it was hard and she somehow managed to break through my barriers. The barriers that I thought would protect me. So it meant that I wasn't strong enough either.

I was a kid who had no insecurities and was just one ornament all pieced together with different things that created my character. But one hard blow in a soft spot and all the tiny fragments that made me would slowly, one by one fall down and gradually my entire character would cease to be me.

But my counselor, she was the type that if I liked talking, I'd talk to her endlessly. Just about how I felt and everything. I felt pathetic for feeling that way but it's not like I did it in real life. Maybe that's why I was fine letting her read what I had written. What I had written came straight from my head. She was the only privileged person to even see a fraction of how my mind worked.

I pulled on the hoodie, snuggling my rib showing, blue veins running, completely unimpressive body into it. The rest of the day was a blur. Most of it anyway.

The one memorable part other than my encounter with my counselor (which was only memorable because I felt uncomfortable and worried about it the entire day) was just thinking about the day she first came and took the position as my counselor and a couple of others from lower and higher grades. (I thought of this while I was feeling uncomfortable and worrying about the encounter for the entire day.) Like grass and pipes, everything I find memorable is connected.

When she first came I'm not going to lie, none of us could've cared less. We thought she was just another teacher who was going to teach just another boring subject. But then she just went to one of the empty classrooms which all the kids imagine to be haunted (I have never joined in any of these conversations) and didn't come out for the rest of the day at school. Then the kids started disappearing. Then the leftover bunch of kids imagine the strange new teacher is the ghost and that she's come to regain her ghostly throne or whatever in the haunted empty room. (Yet again I wasn't a part of this conversation.) If you are observant like I am, you will notice that I keep bringing up the fact that I don't converse much. It's like a weird flex of mine. Like, hey I don't talk to people. I just think the things people talk about with myself. I'm sad like that.

But for some reason it feels cool to actually say that. Like I actually don't need friends because I don't really find the need to talk about what the neighbor did today with anyone else. I just acknowledge it and move on. My voice works, my mind works, I'm not dumb, I'm not really quiet, I'm just different. And I like being different.

Later we realized that she was one of those people who are supposed to help you study for your exam and help you with your problems. This made sense because she was only a couple of years older than us and probably the most modern thing in the school building.

When it was my turn to meet her, I wore my special occasion hoodie and just stalked into the room to find her going through a bunch of my old papers and grades. She wore a cheap pair of glasses. I took a step back grimacing. I didn't like glasses.

She saw my look, laughed slightly, removed them and in one casual movement threw it into the wastepaper basket. The surprising thing for me at that time wasn't the fact that she threw it, it was the fact that it landed perfectly into the wastepaper basket.

Then she started acting all nice and giving me compliments that my grades were good and I just stood there quietly knowing that she was just being nice because it was what she had to do. And if she didn't she would probably get fired. I was just a small part of her job which helped her get her money. I meant nothing to her as did she to me.

Then one day I was getting bullied (I know that should sound more dramatic but I was used to it) because I didn't speak or express more emotions and one dude was holding me against the locker while the other punched me in the face and I saw her looking at us from a corner like she was about to come to stop them but I didn't want that. Getting saved by a teacher is like signing a death contract in the case of high school bullies. I shook my head microscopically while being punched and she seemed to acknowledge it because she looked away and carried some books into her room.

Later when I was sitting on the step squeezing my nose to somewhat stop the bleeding, she came and sat down next to me and wordlessly held a tissue. I snuffled my nose into it and she just looked down the flight of steps as if she was wondering how much it would hurt if someone pushed her down them. Her hands were tense like mine, as if she was also uncomfortable sitting down next to me.

"Thanks." I muttered instinctively shocked to hear the sound of my own voice.

She did relax a bit then, even though I was still tensed and she smiled amusedly. "For the tissue?"

"For everything." I mumbled inwardly cringing at how cliché that sounded but from the way she lightly rolled her eyes, stood up and walked away I knew she understood that I mostly meant the fact that she didn't come to save me. She didn't force me to sign my death contract.