Sometimes | Teen Ink

Sometimes

July 19, 2013
By Luckystar78 ELITE, London, Other
Luckystar78 ELITE, London, Other
114 articles 0 photos 97 comments

Favorite Quote:
"..though warm as summer it was fresh as spring." (Thomas Hardy) ("Far from the Madding crowd")


Sometimes it’s hard to know why I’m still living.

Especially on days like these. Days filled with tireless disappointment; punctured with fear and hope and expectation; littered with dirty lies and rumours.

I remember one of these days very clearly. It was January 7th, and snow was just starting to sweep across the streets, like pretty icing. It was always a shame when boots stamped on freezing earth, but that couldn’t really be helped.

It was bitterly cold when I walked into school. A kid was outside the building, spraying the wall with red anger and a paint can. He didn’t notice me as I slipped inside.

When I walked into class, I kept my head down, as always. But the whispers were beginning anyway. I’d heard it all recently, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. But somehow today was different. I didn’t know why, only that it hurt so much.

“Hi, Sarah,” said a girl with too much make-up, those big shiny lips curving into a happy sneer.

I ignored her, taking my seat behind. But they wouldn’t leave me alone, not even when I took out Wuthering Heights and pretended to read. They just kept staring at me until I was forced to look up.

“That’s a nice book,” one of the boys said in a mock-serious voice, studying the cover. “Where did you get it? Can I see?”

I shook my head, but it was too late.

He had it out of my hands before I could say a word. Not that that would have made any difference, anyway. I watched as he ripped out all the pages I had marked. All the pages I loved. And somehow today wasn’t just another day. I knew it was stupid. I could get another copy, find all the pages I had folded down. I knew I shouldn’t cry because of them. But I did anyway.

“What’s this?” the boy said, his finger finding the first page. I knew it well. On it were the words: To Sarah. I know you will understand this, because I like you. Love Andy. P.S. try not to get it wet like last time.

“Who’s Andy?” he said, his nose too close to mine. When I didn’t reply, he got angry. “I asked you a question, Johnson. Who’s Andy?”

“He’s nobody,” I whispered.

That was true. He wasn’t anymore. He was dead.

“Whatever,” they were already turning away, disinterested. I had faded into my ugly grey chair because I was no longer entertaining. Like a broken toy.

I bent my head over the ruined book, and tried to tell myself it didn’t matter.

But it did. Because it was Andy’s.

Sometimes I think the people who leave us behind are the ones to be envied. Because this world isn’t for me.

I stuffed the last gift into my rucksack, and thought that sometimes, other people really had no idea of how much words bruised.


I listened to Mr Nixon talk about fossils and stupid things like that, all the while wondering whether this time next week, I would still be in this seat.

Or if I would be dead, too.

So, Andy, you got a lucky escape. But next time come back for me, okay?



Similar Articles

JOIN THE DISCUSSION

This article has 0 comments.