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?
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