Compromise: A Short Story

Compromise

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My name is Liana Fitz Hemming's, and I did not get away with it.

Caution wasn't held in the palm of my hand—not this time, and not the time before. I spread my fingers apart—I let things take action as they were. As they are—how my mind plays. You'd be surprised by what I am willing to admit—about my thoughts.

Nothing—I never conclude that there is anything to say.

I accepted the downfall, and only because I felt free. I smiled at the view of those red and blue lights. I was noticed this time.

They saw me this time. I was happy.

I was in the local mall looking at all the pretty clothes that I cannot afford. My hands rained through the lines of clothing, and the texture of each piece of fabric affected me in a way. In a way—where I felt like acting. I felt like doing something that I can do. I did not just stand there when I was done invading.

I took the hangers too. I felt like being a lot more daring, and a lot more carefree. And damn—if it did not feel good.

I even skipped a little. I did not mind, or breach myself over the fact that I was caught. I felt like I was winning a game for the first time.

I was fighting the catch. I was making fun of the catch. It was really fun. I had fun—regret is not a trait that I carry, and I did not carry it at this time in my life.

Rebellion carries the weight of our teen years.

Because we're fresh at this stage of our life—we crave to be noticed.

We want an outer source—or a someone.

We want them to look at us with concern, and teach us how to gratify right from wrong. Force them to tell us if there is an in between behavior of it all?

We won't admit what we're doing. We won't admit what we want.

What we're doing is irrelevant. What we want is unknown.

The potential aftermath is what we're looking at—before it's over. The possibility of hitting a right, or a wrong is what we anticipate of finding out.

We will not admit...

Any—

Thing.

The end—it results in a—truce. A truce between your brain, and reality. The voices in your head become less real, and the voices on the outside become more ignorant.

Lying becomes a daily routine. The probability of influence becomes our supply of life.

We feed off of that energy, and then we start over.

Now I decide to rebel—against my routine. I was unaware of its existence until I decided to be happy about its act on me.

Everyone has one.

It is a ghost list—of things you do that are wrong; things you invisibly convince yourself—is right.

And this is where I fall.

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