to be determined!

She is toxic. In the most ambiguous sense she is a cancer that needed to be cut from my life. I am fifteen and in being fifteen I am bound by law, other restrictions, and public opinion and am unable to take action regarding any aspect of my life independently, which is a huge barrier in attempting to do almost anything. The air-conditioning on the car my family owns works in the way that it has a number dial from one to ten, one being the least cool air, ten being the coolest. Then in addition there is a fan ranging from one to four determining how much air flows through the vents. My mother, no matter whether it was the middle of July, or an early fall afternoon would set the air conditioning to ten and four or nothing. While that may just be a car comfort preference, she feels that way about any issue presented to her. She either does all or nothing. It’s as if the concept of logic is imaginary. Having an argument is near impossible because any sign of any opposition to any issue is viewed as an attack and then she shuts down. Having someone of this nature around throughout your life makes everything infinitely more difficult. She has become the “you” I write to in the poems I compose at three a.m. with tears soaking my hands as they shake to scribble the words that tumble through me. She has a maniacal superiority complex that gives her this totalitarian reign over me. The perpetuity of it makes my want to vomit. It is just never ending. I mean what gives her the right to act as though she is far more exceptional than I. Eventually when all our lives end as they must, everyone shall be the same. In one hundred years no archeologist will be able to tell the difference between a billionaire’s decomposing flesh, and the homeless man you just scoffed at on the corner of that busy street that you walk on every day. Eventually we are all going to be six feet under the surface of this troubling and unforgiving earth. So who are you to say you are any better than me?

Existing is measured in days, and they are of finite supply, so why keep someone in your life that turns them all bitter? Change is hard, and weird, and scary. No one likes it or I guess it would happen more often. But with my limited possibilities I am trying to carry on and to be happy. I try to fill my life with as many positive things as I can, sort of to compensate for the glaring negative.

I feel nothing though which is intensely horrifying. I’m not sure that you’ll know what I’m talking about, I’m not even sure I know what I’m talking about. I’m not sad, but I’m not happy. I’m neither here nor there. I feel like she took something from me. I was and now I am not. I’m also not entirely sure what that quintessential moment was, that defined the complete me from the broken me. That’s what I feel. Broken. I remember reading somewhere that humans are art, in the way that mosaics are art, that we are both made up of broken pieces but we are still engaging, exotic, and exceptional. I like that. It makes me feel capable, and that maybe instead of needing someone else to fix me and make me whole, that maybe I am my own missing piece. That maybe I could be the hand of god that swoops down and saves myself from being crippled.

Although my life spans from the mundane to the mildly interesting, it’s okay because I make up a lot of stories and imaginary people and places to entertain my time. When I close my eyes I don’t see black, oh no, I see a world of color, and potential. My best friend’s name is Eliza. She is exponentially more amazing than I. Maybe I’ll call her up and see if she wants to grab dinner and some coffee although she’s probably out doing something that I’d only ever read about. My mother would probably be home soon, and I wondered whether maybe tonight could be the night I don’t just take it. With one foot on either side of my kitchen doorway, I stood debating if when I looked back on this night years from now, whether tonight would be the night I remained cowardly or the night I became a domestic warrior. Through the plethora of thoughts racing through my semi-conscience mind I heard the ignition of the family red pickup stop, and a car door slam in a fit of anger. “Make the choice, you can do it,” I whisper. My heart, body, and spirit come to the same conclusion at precisely the same moment, when her shrill voice calls out my name, demanding me to show my face. I step completely through the door, and make myself seen, make myself heard. I hear the beat of her shoes climb the staircase at the front of my small colonial like house. I walk towards my front door with the confidence of a tiger approaching his defenseless prey. I wait there, gathering my thoughts while she periodically shouts into the void I’ve created. I hear her turn about face and stride toward the stairs and with each note of the symphony she composed with her feet, my anger and hatred for her grows bigger and stronger. My hands have subconsciously curled into tight fists, my knuckles forming a deep contrast of white to red on my hands. When she is finally able to tear her face up from the glowing screen of her cellphone we lock eyes, hers bleeding of disgust. I changed my mind. I can’t do this. I’m not nearly strong enough. I hate myself for spending hours of internal debacle for naught. I can’t, nay I won’t let her see me crumble. I quickly make a dash out the front door, never minding her eyes like daggers thrown at my spine, and the physical burden of the eight inches of snow that hug the ground.

 

 

           *     *     *

 

As I walked with an ample pace the eight blocks to our local diner to meet up with Eliza I saw a wall laced with ivy on my right. In between the strands of lacy green I saw the word ‘lost’ painted, faded, in shaky handwriting. I thought about the person who wrote it. Who were they? Are they still lost? I sure hope not. I hope that they found their way. Maybe I should scrawl ‘hope’ somewhere. I’d want to make sure though that anyone who passed it would know that I still have hope.  I turned my head to bring my attention to the four-lane street with cars rushing fast past me lifting my hair to dance with the wind. As each car passed me I became more bewildered by the amount of cars there were. I mean the immensity of it all was insane. Each teeny car carried someone, maybe more. They all had relationships, jobs, responsibilities, interests; it’s astounding that all of that can exist in a suburb in southern California. The world is so vast; yet so dense it’s amazing that we don’t all get lost in it all. My mind was falling over itself pondering the enormity of our little world when I rounded the corner to the diner. The neon sign signaling that they were open only read, “ope” as the “n” was consistently in need of repair. I sat down at my favorite booth by the window and waited for Eliza to arrive. I love diners. I think it’s because they are familiar. I lived in New York for a while, and then Florida, and then Oregon for about six months with my hopefully final destination of Los Angeles, and the only thing that was the same in each, was the diners. No matter where you find yourself, diner food always tastes the same, so over the years they have come to serve as my safe haven when the troubles, and the magnitude of existing become too much. I hailed the waitress and got a glass of water and tapped my hand to my thigh in the beat of a song that has been glued to my mind for the last couple of days. I only looked up when I heard the noise of Eliza pulling her chair back, it screeching against the tile floor. With no preface or introduction she jumped right into telling me about her adventure of note that I always seemed to somehow not be a part of though we spent a significant amount of time together.

Today I went to Rodeo Drive and I was walking through, just window-shopping of course, and I met this aspiring author. He was sitting outside writing with such intensity and he was good looking too, so I sat down next to him and he glanced up at me and I swear to you I felt like that moment, if we were in a romance flick, would be our movie poster. Of course he paid me no attention after that preliminary glance, I guess I’m just never good enough. Eliza spouted, still mildly out of breath from what I assume her walk here. Two prominent aspects of Eliza can be found in the three sentences she just shared with me. One) She is a firm believer in having the serendipitous meeting with a boy whom she will eventually fall madly in love with, who loves everything she does, he who is her Romeo, and two) She is always putting herself down. I know that most girls take part in this semi-modern phenomenon and people claim that they’re just seeking attention or compliments, but Eliza is doing neither of the two. She’s struggled with self-confidence for the longest while and she is truly beautiful which is so shocking. She is like a butterfly. Everyone basks in the beauty of her symmetrical wings but she is stuck in between the pair, never to fully appreciate how magnificent she is. I replied with my worn out, staple phrase to whenever Eliza doubted her appearance.

“Your chromosomes have combined beautifully my darling. Now let’s eat, please, I’m absolutely starving.”

“You are such a dork, but of course. By the way, how was your walk over here? Not too cold? No creepy old men whistling?”

I blatantly told her, “Eh, nothing too special.”

And so we feasted on mediocre burgers and fries, but did not mind, no, to us we were the newest starlets, dining at the finest restaurant in all the city. 

Author's Note

Help with a title?

Reviews

[Jeffrey David]

You are incredibly insightful. Even though your circumstances are tough, your insight will carry you through. remember that this is not your whole life, just this part. the strongest thing you write about is hope. maybe your title should elude to " Hope And Circumstance"....

[Annabelle]

Thank you very, very much! I love the title suggestion!

[Dipanjan Dutta]

A real masterpiece. an extremely lucid narration yet a bold approach. For the title I would suggest "Hope - lost and regained"

[AirelinLove17]

I liked it, it would be nice if you made it clear it is in the past or in the present not both. You say "She is a cancer that needed." It should be " she is a cancer that needs" or she was a cancer that needed. Overall, the story was good :)

[Coyote Poetry]

The story is very good. I liked how you described thoughts and places. I like the confident and hope/drive of the poem. The ending made the poem complete. Good to make the best of all things. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote