When I was 12 years old I always noticed the little details that I was certain no one else observed. I liked to sit at the back of the classroom and watch my classmates, I often made little drawings of my best friend and the boy I was so infatuated with.
I enjoyed observing how he bit his fingernails when he was nervous about some school assignment; he also used to tear bits of skin off his fingers. I remember one time he sat in front of my best friend, which means he was just one desk away from me. I recall watching his pale freckled neck and imaging it would smell like soap and freesias. His skin was milky and almost mirror like, I wanted to bathe my face in his face, because it looked so untroubled and velvety. He even had a Monroe-esque mole that made his lips look even more luscious. He was a male impression of Snow White, his lips were bloodshot and his hair black as charcoal made his skin look more like porcelain. His flourishing almost incandescent green eyes were deep as the sky, and when by any lucky chance his eyes crossed with mine I vanished and merged with the specs of dust floating around him.
He was bold and quick-witted; his cleverness was beyond any 12 year old boy. His cunning aptitudes made me fall in love with him; he was astonishingly mean with everyone, even with his girlfriend. It almost sound ridiculous how faultless he sounds, because he also had a dainty turned up nose. Of course he was completely out of my reach, of course he never talked to me, by all means he was an object of worship and I was an uninviting slouchy geek.
No matter when I looked at a mirror, all I saw (and see) was a graceless and repelling kid. I always wore a ponytail, with my hair slicked back. With some petty eyes combining a snub nose, I walked slouchy, trying to hide what I had (and have) for a face. I was a walking disaster, with a grief-stricken look, and a pair of crooked legs and teeth. The entire wreckage I had for a body and existence always pulled me down and obviously I was utterly bullied by the most beautiful boys and girls.
I was friends with almost all the underdogs, the deaf, the birdbrained, the ill-favored and the most peculiar specimens I had the chance to meet. I loved sitting with the mentally handicapped kid, he was really sweet and didn’t care much of what other kids said about him; one day he even peed himself and he laughed his hardest. I liked watching him because he enjoyed everything he did and how he did it.
Being the youngest of three, made me contemplate and actually scrutinize each and every action of my brothers. My sister, the voluptuous dancer, was (and still is) my dad’s favorite child. She was your regular 20 year old gal, she was in med school and on her free time she danced and ran like a gazelle. My brother, the pathological liar, was a rather lively law student. Both of them were my mom’s everyday aneurism, they always composed the most stinging opera back at home. They vehemently yelled all day long, cursing each other, cursing my mother and painting me along with the walls. With my muted mouth babbling inside my consciousness whatever crossed my mind to stop making my mother cry. I killed them a million times, I cremated their bodies, I was a bitter girl, I am a bitter girl, I am resentful and mordant.
I ache, I ache, I ache. Fuck, how did I get here?