They say opposites attract. But that wasn't the case for Layla and Jaxon.
BEFORE
Both bear the deep scars of despair, and for that, they were unknowingly drawn to each other.
After surviving a freak accident, Layla struggles to keep up with life an...
It's a horrible feeling knowing that someone hates you. I'm not talking about the 'hate' people like to associate with the people they're sexually frustrated with, or what one might feel towards their younger sibling.
I
Mean
Hate.
Think of the word in bold, and the letters spaced, italicized, capitalized, and underlined and even blown out to a too-big font. H.A.T.E.
There. Think of it like that.
It's a horrible feeling to know that whatever you've done has painted you even worse than a macabre villain to someone. That there's no going back, and there's no changing it. Like spiraling down and down, until you're just spinning, with no way of getting away, and acid crawling down your throat.
And yet, he doesn't know that I deserve it – to be hated. I almost scoff, since I know that I deserve it, and I wonder how much worse things would be if he knew that it was my fault, too.
But he must suspect, shouldn't he? If not, then how can he hate me just because I survived and they didn't?
Or.... maybe I'm assuming things, making them unreal. A part of me hopes that he doesn't hate me. Although that's wishful thinking. Ever since that day, he's always glared at me whenever I've tried speaking to him, and he's never said a word. Ever.
Except one time – "Why did it have to be you who made it out?"
The words play over and over in my head, like they always do, as I get dressed for school, wearing what I always do: black. Even though today's the first day of school. The first day of highschool.
I should be ecstatic and nervous, even though the year of being persecuted because of being – I shudder – a freshmen begins. But all I can think about is Why did it have to be you who made it out?
The words are an unwanted mantra, one that crashes me down instead of lifting me up and encouraging me. I push them back, locking away the memories behind a barricaded door and throwing away the key. Imagining it, even though it doesn't work, helps for now, as I finish getting ready for school.
I look around my room before stepping out. The walls are a plain beige, and I want to paint them, but I don't know how he'll react. I don't want him to make me clean it all up. Even though it might be worth it. Since painting is my form of getting high. Escaping the world. That, and reading. To disappear into the world of ink and hues of color, my wrist and hands choreographers in a dance, weaving my own world. To feel accomplished every time I finish one. Maybe I will paint the walls one day. Or find the biggest canvas ever and go wild with it. Maybe.
With that thought, I close my door and hurry down the stairs. The house is quiet, like it always is, not because it's still early – too early – but because this house is always quiet. What can you expect when it's so big, housing two people? Every room is large and spaced out, but empty. It's too large, mammoth-like and hollow, and the space and silence makes it desolate, and lonely. Gives us an excuse to pretend we don't exist to each other.
Everywhere over the house, there are imprints of her, and my younger siblings, framed pictures and carefully picked out pieces of furniture. It only brings back memories and makes it worse.
Opening the front door, I make sure the house keys are in my pocket before I shut it behind me and pull the wool cap lower on my head. This early in the morning, it's cold, and the world is still quiet. Peaceful but desolate. The sky is a dark, dark blue, almost navy, but it's that time of the day where there isn't any sunlight, but no moon in the sky either. Making everything gray and soft.
From where I live, the school is at least a forty-five minute walk, which explains why I had to wake up at an ungodly hour. Ever since the accident, my father banned me from taking the bus. He's an extremist in that way, and I can add public transport to the ever growing list of things that are too dangerous for me.
Which I find ridiculous, because then he can add pencils to the list. I could accidentally stab myself in the eye with the tip of one. Or be stabbed in the jugular with one and die. Or someone could ram one down my throat, and bam, I'll choke to death. Convulsing and probably choke on my own vomit.
Gruesome stuff.
I steer my thoughts away from all the possible ways I could die from a pencil and hurry my pace, trying to fill my thoughts with cheerful thoughts.
To make the walk seem quicker, I pull out my iPod, playing the first thing that comes up without paying attention to it. The beat starts, soft, sad, and slightly haunting, before the melody starts.
Isn't it lovely?
Being alone,
Heart of glass,
Mind of stone.
I hum along to the lyrics, even though it makes it easy to spiral into the pit of what I call Depression, Anxiety, Anger, Regret, and Fear.
I wait for the panic attack to come.
*************
There are throngs of people entering the high school. Stampedes of students. Cars of the upperclassmen pull into the parking lot, ranging from old trucks to pristine BMWs. I stand back, watching the students cross the streets, some loitering in the parking lot, some marching straight to the lobby. I can already make out the cliques of people, the different age groups. I can tell who are freshmen, since they stand out, kind of awkwardly and scream new! I can tell who's part of the football/sports/cheerleaders/famous clique, and who's part of the studious clique. There are more, but I don't stand by and examine them. Instead, I'm crossing the street and going into the throngs of people.
It's loud, voices rising over others, some rowdy and boisterous laughter filling the air. I can already see someone picking on others, tall and crowding at the smaller person. A teacher comes and tells them to get inside and go to class, reprimanding the bully.
As I enter the school, bodies press against me, the heavy scent of body spray and perfume bombarding my senses, along with the chemical smell of cleaning products. I push against the bodies that head to the offices, deciding I'll get my schedule before finding the locker.
The secretary is everything I expect her to be – busy, cheerful with a professional touch, and downright to the point. I decide I like her. She's helpful, beyond helpful, and when she notices the smudge marks on my fingers, she passes me a slip with information on an art class and competitions.
I pocket the paper as I open the locker and wrinkle my nose at the smell that wafts from it. Shoes squeak across the floor, and the sound becomes more faint as I load my things into the locker.
It takes me five minutes to get the damn thing to close, and I step back with a sigh, but groan when it pops out again.
"Bloody lockers," I mutter under my breath.
With no warning, a hand slams beside me, the flesh smacking against the metal, resounding in my ears and I let out a shriek.
A/N
Not sure how it is now, but gosh, freshman year. *shudders*
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