Paper Shields

Chapter 1

It was my fault, I figured.

The sun was still climbing the clouds and my feet were still stubbornly routed in the grass. It was also 10:13 AM, which was a thing that was happening. In and of itself, 10:13 was not an all around terrible time. Although it lacked the finesse and peace of later times, such as the lovely 9:37 PM, or the productivity of a harsh 7:24 AM, it was still better than a miserable and desperate 5:42 AM.

So I figured it was my fault. 5:42 AM was not an appropriate time for silent contemplation of one's life, and often led to crying and anger and bucket loads of regret. Maybe I could fill the hole in my heart with bucket loads of regret. Maybe even build a regret sandcastle, that would soon become a popular attractions for the small regret-children festering in my empty heart. The regret-parents would watch on proudly, but the worry lines gracing their foreheads would speak of the crumbling economy and the inevitability of death. Poor parents. This regret based analogy might also reflect on the state of the world. Think about your life. Do you know what you're doing? Really?

I figured it was also my fault I spent more time coming up with these not-remotely-clever but plenty sarcastic remarks than actually dealing with my emotional issues. That might also be partly why I spent the majority of my night spreading tasteful images of plastic dinosaurs on skateboards around the internet. Society's future at it's highest.

I sighed. I did that a lot. As well as crying. There was also plenty of that. It was just a snivelling mess that realistically belonged more on Grey's Anatomy than in a teenage girl's front yard. I'd never watched that show though. What the hell did I know? Obviously not much, and I was not going to learn much more unless I actually got to school.

I stepped back inside and kind of, trudged, through my house. That was a cool word. Trudge. I resumed my trudging up my stairs, through my room and into a pair of unseasonably tight jeans and a particularly black shirt. Black like most of my shirts. Or like my soul. I patted myself on the back for that one. Clever trivialization of a serious emotional issue you really ought to deal with, Harper, really impressive.

I also checked myself out in the mirror, because no matter how absurdly cliche it was for me to comment on my outstanding beauty but confusing lack of self-esteem to myself every morning, I did prefer to not go through my day with a strange green growth protruding from my head. Luckily I found no such thing, and after a few unimpressed blinks at my obviously sleep deprived face and kindly swallowed figure, I reaffirmed my love for loose, dark coloured fashion and my hatred for most aspects of my actually person. No outstanding beauty, or beautiful sunshine locks, or inexplicably clear skin to report, but rather the same awkwardly pale and blotchy skin that had over time become about fifty percent dark circle. My eyes were small, squinty and brown, and honestly still in some kind of permanent haze, while my hair was still just, kind of, there. Brown, in need of a wash and scored by consecutive years of intense ponytails. So intense. However, there didn't appear to be any self-esteem on the horizon. Damn, I was really looking forward to that.

I was a great conversational partner, I decided, and was one of the few people who truly understood what a useless shit-stain I was. The kind of shit-stain who's shit-staininess was only amplified by the sheer amount of time and thought that went into wallowing about how horrible of a person said stain was. And that's what's so great about talking to yourself. You might be a smelly brown irremovable blotch on the proverbial favourite white pants of the universe, but at least you aren't a talking one. You figure those have got to be even worse than you.

In order to start my day off right, I help myself to a generous serving of eggs and bacon, topped off with a glass of orange juice. No I don't. That sentence was almost entirely sarcasm. Because I was an innovative 21st century woman, whose sense of humour could only be described as top-notch, high-grade, platinum regurgitated shit. I contemplated this while silently chewing a rolled up piece of bread and sipping tastefully at juice box fruit-punch. Absolutely separate from any notion of a nutritious breakfast.