The Way I Chose

Strike of Pain

I scurry out of the class once the bell rings trying to avoid the eyes of the peers around me. I don't like to be noticed. I don't like to have attention. I don't like to work with others. I don't have any talents, not that I know of or can use to whatever ability I have left in me.

My whole life has been rotten. My parents were divorced when I was very young, making it hard for me to communicate. I live with my father, and see my mother on the weekends, but we don't talk much. I may be holding a grudge, but I am mad at them for what they did to my childhood, how I was abused, and my life now as a teenager. Tenth grade has been a terrible year for me, though it is drawing to a close. You would expect that being older than most people at my school would give more authority, or school cred. But really, it is the complete opposite. I've been hurt, many different ways. I don't like going to a public highschool. It really pains my soul and I can't grow up the way I want to with these courses. I want to be a successful artist! I have goals and dreams like other people. I am just the only one who lacks the belief that I will succeed, in school, art, and whatever comes after once I reach adulthood. I close my locker door realizing I was out of it again. I usually am in class too, but I end up getting 80+ marks in my courses and I can most definitely live with that. I slip my backpack onto my shoulder, pull my hood up, and scramble up the stairs and out the foyer doors.

My father always said he would pick me up from school. But for the last eight years, he hasn't done it once. I start to take quick but smooth strides down the sidewalk as I make my way home. A three kilometer walk. The thoughts that run through my head everyday reminds me how I have never had one good friend, I've just had fake ones try to get information out of me. Now since I shared some personal information, I get bullied, hurt, and slammed against the lockers when people actually pay any attention to the girl with a black hoodie, dark brown hair, and stale brown eyes. They pick on the small girls, I am not skinny, but not plump, just slightly bigger, yet much shorter. They think I am an easy object to take out any anger on. Sometimes their rage turns me into a punching bag. A helpless person curled up into a ball, feeling contained in a sack.

I urge myself to forget and realize how time swooped by and push open the door to my house. I drop my bag on the floor and head up to my room. My room is decorated with my favourite colours; dark purple, and dark turquoise. My sheets on my bed are black, and my night stand, white. I plop onto my bed and open my laptop. My social media is open showing several messages from my so called "followers". Like any normal person, I look at their posts and realize I have been tagged in every...single...one...of them.

-Unfollow Draya Jonson. She is a fake. ~MM5

-Draya Jonson is a complete loser. She can't do anything! I can't believe she is even alive still. ~HackerGirl17

-What is the point of Draya Jonson being here. She makes everyone miserable.~Anonymous

-Hey everyone, check out this hideous photo of Draya Jonson. She is so ugly.~BrotherBro9

I cup my hand and place it over my mouth. What have I done to anyone to deserve this? Maybe they are right? Maybe I am ugly, I am a loser, an outcast, a victim of their own blogs. I stand up and rush to my mirror. I look deeply into the reflection and scan the girl in front of me. She is short, her mascara is running madly down her cheeks. Her eyes have turned red and are bulging out of the sockets. She grabs her hair, and pulls at it harshly, flinching at the pain. Her cheeks turn red with hate as she looks back at me. They are right. I am as ugly as they say. That photo, the one that was sent. That was my school year book photo last year. I dressed up for it even, but that doesn't matter because everyone hates it. I must make everyone miserable, because of how miserable I am. But I have no reasons to be happy so I can't do much about that. Can I really not do anything? I thought art would improve my talents, expressions and let out my thoughts. But I am not as good as I once thought I was. The person in the mirror disappears as I run back over to my bed and flop face down. I can't hold the tears in anymore, all I can do is let it out and hope if there is any hope in me not to be such a failure anymore.

I hear my father come home and he calls me for dinner which he picked up from one of his favourite places to eat. I do not know what it is called. I don't know anything about my father, nor mother but I make do considering it is good food, and I must be thankful for it.

I rub my eyes hard as I go downstairs. My father looks at me, straight in the eyes, and for the first time in a long time he asks me what is wrong?

"Nothing, I'm just tired, that's all." He shrugs and goes back to setting the table.

We eat quietly till our plates are empty then I load them in the dishwasher and walk back to my room. There are some ways I can take my mind off things. Especially the things at school. I open my book and start reading. Reading always makes me content and I can drift off to a world of unimaginable fantasies, futuristic fables which don't teach me anything. As long as I am in a different world rather than reality. I could honestly read anything to get away from it.

Eventually I start to come out of my world of books and my eyes sag from heaviness. I climb under my covers, not bothering to change to my pajama's and I drift off to the world of nightmares.

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I slide roughly out of my bed trying to forget the horrors shown to me in my sleep. I put on a fresh pair of clothes; light blue jeans, black tee-shirt and a gray hoodie. I brush my hair and it falls in my face like it normally does but I keep it that way. I pull my hoodie up, and grab some money and breakfast and head out the door right away. Today I hope to start off better than yesterday ended. But that I know is not going to happen yet I still have some hope, and I don't know where it keeps coming from. I just know that it is from somewhere deep inside of me where I just can't seem to surface it.

My posture says everything about my character. Slouching and head down to the ground shows that I don't want to be talked to, or cheered up, which I think is impossible. The only time I can smile willingly is through the power of the literature of the pages after pages of books I have lined and stacked high on my dresser. I smile mentally at the thought, but don't have the strength to show it physically.

I keep my focus on the pavement under my converse shoes and kick some small rocks out of my way, listening to them tap frequently on the ground as they jump away from my feet. Another day I have to suffer through, another locker I will get slammed against. I just want to be alone, and I get the exact opposite! It isn't fair. Like what most people say "Life isn't fair!" I am very familiar with this statement. I live a life of inequality everyday. They should ban the people who hurt others in the school. But if they are suck ups, then I will be the person expelled if they listen to those saying I will hurt them.

As I walk into school the first bell rings and I run to my class. Remembering that I have to present my report today my palms become sweaty, and I start to shake, my knees lock and as my name is called I crumple to the ground remembering everything from the night before.