Angry and writing


I walked away, notebook and pen in
hand, up to my room to write in peace. I wished Shaynne or Martina were still
alive. They almost always sided with me. I think Martina would have agreed with
mom on that argument. She liked glossy pink popular girls, stylish with a lot
of attitude.

I lay on my bed, staring up at the
quotes. They all had some sort of quote about not caring what anyone else
thought, being different, standing out.

I suddenly admired those people even
more. They didn’t care what anyone else thought. They were famous for being
different, their individuality making them an icon to people like me.

I flipped to a blank notebook-page and
began writing. Poems and songs that weren’t about misery and missing people.
Songs with messages; messages about being who you are, the person you are most
comfortable being, not changing yourself for others. Not for your parents,
friends, enemies, family, your boyfriend, the fashion industry. Nobody.

I realised that when Martina and
Shaynne killed themselves, I became a Nobody in the eyes of society. Everyone
had instantly written me off, as if they tarred me with the same brush, signed
me over to the same fate as my siblings. i was never going to give them the
satisfaction of being right. I was never going to give my mom and the girls at
school the satisfaction of knowing they’d changed me. I was never going to be a
suicidal clone.

I was still scribbling furiously,
paying no attention to grammar or spelling or sentences when mom called me. I
ignored her. I didn’t want to talk to the woman who didn’t like who I was.

An hour later I could hear her getting
dinner ready. I was hungry but I still didn’t go downstairs, the need to keep
writing was consuming me. I grabbed the half a bar of chocolate that was in the
drawer of my bedside table from yesterday and kept on writing. I still didn’t
want to talk to mom.

I heard footsteps on the scrubbed and
shiny stairs. It wasn’t the quick clicking of mom’s shoes, it was the thud of
dad’s boots. I sighed. He always said the same thing, to give mom a chance. I
always dreaded our conversations, even though he didn’t yell or snap at me like
mom. He was quiet and sympathetic which made me feel worse. I admit, guilt is
one feeling I hate. I hoped he was just going up to get something.

The End

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