For Lydia's whole life she was neglected by those around her; her peers, her parents, her teachers. No one seems to ever notice her, but she begins to realize she likes it. She's left alone to her own thoughts and soon, everything around her becomes a fantasy she didn't mean to create. She quickly realizes shes balancing between sanity and falling for her mind's tricks.
I wish at 11:11 every night.
I wish for a shooting star.
It doesn't make much sense to wish for something else to wish on--to you, at least. You see, I've never actually seen a shooting star. I hear they're quite extrodinary. How can they not be? I can only imagine looking up at the night sky and seeing a star fall down, down, down, leaving a trail of white dust behind.
I wish I could catch a falling star.
You know what's weird? About this time, my mom would come into my room and tell me to shut my lights off so I didn't wake my baby sister. But, here I am, just waiting for the door to open.
"Jesus," I whisper to myself in the dark. I wonder if anyone is listening, like God.
Mom always told me God hates sinners. Apparently, using his or his son's name is a terrible sin--God hates me. Everyone hates me, but I'm okay with that. Maybe, whenever I die, they'll be sorry. Just as sorry as I was when I told my baby sister she was disgusting.
Okay, so maybe I'm not sorry for that. She deserves it, she is disgusting. And everyone else thinks she's so goddamn pretty.
There I go, using His name again.
I wish I regret telling my sister she was gross.
School's going good, I think. I can't tell if teachers like my work or not, they never look me in the eye. It's like they can't even see me. I could have my hand raised for ten minutes, knowing the answer to a question they'd asked, and they look right past me. I'm not exagerating, either. They look past me every single time.
My therapist says that they don't, that I just convinced myself they did so I can cope with myself. I don't understand how telling myself people can't see me will help me be, well, comfortable. It should make most people frustrated, that's what she tells me. She once tried to make me say "people see me".
Sometimes she tells me she sees me.
But she doesn't. I'm just a bag of cash to her, and a lot of it. I've been going to her for seven years, I guess so my parents don't have to listen to me complain. It worked--for them. I'm still completely invisible.
I sit up in my stiff bed, glancing at the clock. Fifteen minutes, and still no one has told me to shut off my lights. Maybe my baby sister suddenly died. Good.
No, not good. I didn't mean good like "I'm glad she's dead," I meant good like--
I wish I knew what 'good' meant.
My fingers are trembling now, and I don't know why. Sometimes I don't think I know what anger is. I should be mad that they stand over her crib, cooing about how beautiful her disgusting little face is, but I'm not. I should be furious that they're not kissing me good night. But, I don't feel it in my stomach like people are supposed to . You know how when it's described in books and television and things like that, it's right at the pit of your stomach?
Well, it's not for me. There's nothing in my gut. Nothing. My heart doesn't flutter when I see a cute boy. I don't cry when something close to my disappears or dies. My cheeks don't get hot with embarassment while I'm sitting by myself in the cafeteria. There's no urge to laugh when someone says something amusing.
I'm at my mirror now.
When I was little, people made a fuss over my pretty blue eyes. They said they were pale and in the sun, they sparkled with some sort of--innocence. I don't understand it, because when I look at my eyes now, all I see is nothing. It's like they're empty. There's no shine; no pretty sparkle like those happy girls in my class.
They disgust me, just like my stupid little sister.
I wish I could carve my eyes out.
And then they'd feel sorry they stopped telling me how nice my eyes are.
My hamster died a couple of days ago. I think it just wanted to leave me. I don't really blame it, no one wants to be around me. But, like I said, it's not that I'm upset about it. I'm not lonely, I promise. I like being by myself, it gives me power. It's an incredible power where I'm in charge of everything around me.
I see myself taking my baby sister and chucking her out the window. And it doesn't bother me that I think about that, in fact I like thinking about it. It makes me feel full. Like that void, the empty hole that God planted in my heart, is filled.
It's all God's fault. I'm glad He hates me. I deserve it.
Just like that stupid baby in the other room deserves to get thrown out her window. Five stories is a long way for a foot long kid. She'd splatter right on the curb. It'd be a masterpiece, like Monet. And I'd be able to tell everyone that I did it, I created that fantastic piece of work all over the side walk. And they'd take pictures of it and hang it around offices. People would look at it, some maybe even admire it.
I know I would.
Or maybe, just maybe, I want to be the masterpiece. All I have to do is walk to the window and open it--.