Writing the beginning of a story, I have less than no idea where it is going.
There was a time in my life where I believed anything was possible. That I could be anything that I wanted, and be the best at doing it. Mine was a foolish dream. No, it wasn't even a dream, rather, an idea, so laughably simple in nature that there was no real chance of committing to and completing it. At least, in the real world. Regardless of its value, I still had my mind...I called it home.
The bus was a sad, dirty yellow, different than the usual bright liveliness that was associated with such an idea as education. On it's arrival, I shrugged my bag into a more comfortable position, and boarded. The inside of the vehicle barely met the expectations set by its exterior; the worn, olive-drab seats were graffiti'ed extensively with permanent marker and tape. I picked the least repulsive of the bunch, settling for a right-side view of an equally dismal roadside. Houses of various degree of finery glided by in the dawn's gray light. Some, like my own, were just built to live in, and had few exterior features or adornments. Owners of some other houses made obvious attempts to outdo their neighbors by adding miniature hedges, gardens, and structural additions like secretive patios and pools. As my attention drifted back into the bus, I noticed the scrawl across the inside of my seat. Someone had written “Your fake” in capped letters, bright orange, effectively clashing with the backdrop of the seat to become more noticeable than anything else.
“What about my fake?”, I wondered, whispering to the oblivious children sitting near me, who I only now acknowledged in my absent-minded observation. There were few notable people on the bus. Seemingly, the need for conformity has so overtaken the young of my school that, upon inspection, one child may only be discerned from another by a blood sample, taken laboriously from the layers of clothing that enfolded their near-emaciated bodies. There were exceptions to this, of course. There was a boy, perhaps a year or so younger that I, trying in vain to be like the rest, but, alas, to no avail. He could be picked out by the slightly less expensive shirt and jacket he wore, and his jeans, which were quite obviously too short for him. There was not a doubt in my mind, however, that he did not think exactly like those rich automatons that placed themselves so highly above each other, disregarding their similarity entirely. I suppose it is worth mentioning my own appearance, so one may accurately gauge the validity of my criticism. I will admit, I was not wholly unchanged by the recent fads and fashion of the “now”. That day, I decided to wear a zipped-up black and brown jacket, augmented by a slimming pair of jeans and some popular shoes.
“Now listen here, you little bitch, you better bring me those clothes or else! But mom, you have to! Why...” said a girl nearby. I could hardly believe my ears, that someone could so blatantly disrespect their own parents, that I nearly said something on several occasions. I admit, after some time, I succumbed.
“You know, telling people they are going to do something isn't the best way to get them to do it.” I said bluntly, giving her no room to ignore or mishear my words. She turned to me in a second, giving a scathing look, that was replaced by one of slight indifference.
She replied, “Fine. Mom, could you please bring me my clothes right NOW!”, in a most sarcastic of ways. I sighed, defeated.