Broken Pencils

Never Again

God, now there was another feeling added to the bubbling cauldron of emotions that decided to replace Marcy's stomach.

It's weird how signals from your brain can cause you to be a miserable pile of mush.

Bored, and not entirely sure what to do with their time, Marcy looked around their room expectantly. Maybe they could find something to occupy their time with.

And just as Marcy thought the attempt for something to do would be nothing but a waste, they saw something in the corner.

A pencil.

Broken, of course.

"I thought I threw them all away..." Marcy's voice trailed off as memories filled their mind. Flashes of life that they once lived came and went all too quickly, and yet, not nearly quick enough.

Marcy threw the pencil into the trash as hastily as they could.

"I did not want to think about that today," is what they said, however, their mind had a different idea, apparently.

Thoughts continued to pour into their brain they they really wish didn't.

Perhaps, this is why Marcy felt miserable so often. Because those stupid fucking pencils wouldn't ever leave their mind.

Right now, Marcy wanted a distraction. Realistically, they needed to talk to someone; they shouldn't just bottle up their feelings like they had been doing for the past... how old was Marcy?

Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone to talk to. Marcy's parents were always distant, Sasha was a bit too brash at times, and Anne...

"Anne," Marcy whispered once again. The name felt nice to say. It was pleasing to the ears. That, or Marcy was utterly in love with someone who didn't feel like dating them.

Marcy reached for their phone, hand fumbling slightly until they had a firm grasp on it. They sighed as they sent a simple message.

"Can we talk?"

Anne had almost immediately invited Marcy to her house in response to their message.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Milk?"

"Nah, I'm good," Marcy said. "I'm not particularly fond of cow boob juice."

"That has got to be the most grotesque sentence I've heard all day."

"Cow boob juice," Marcy repeated again, just for the hell of it.

"God, that's so gross." Anne shook her head disappointedly. "Anyway, what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

"Well, honestly, I'm not entirely sure. I don't feel all that great and I dunno who to talk to about it. I would've talked to Sasha, but she's kind of..."

"Yeah, I get it. I'll be shocked if she grows up to be a therapist or something like that."

"Sasha as a therapist? That's about as likely as my parents using my preferred pronouns."

"Damn. That must be awful."

"No shit, Sherlock," Marcy said lightheartedly. "Got any other mysteries to solve?"

"Okay, Marcy, I understand that you like to joke around instead of delve into the issue at hand, but this seems like you're hurting on the inside, and I wanna be there to help you. Maybe I won't be able to understand fully, but I'd like to listen at the very least."

"Okay... I don't really know where to start."

"Just start with whatever feels right. And take your time. I've got all the time in the world."