The Bittersweet Girl

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

My stomach lurched up and knocked into my heart, starting a bruise as my brain zoomed in circles around our conversation. What did I do?

“I’ve come to a decision,” my best friend of four years told me. Happiness that she'd found direction blended with the selfish release of breath. The release that came only when I realized this could bring an end to my sleep loss from talking her through her own split emotion/person insomnia. Mostly, however, I was relieved for her. I’d hoped her decision would lead her away from all the at home hurt she’d toiled through.

“What did you decide?” I asked, fingers crossed that my happy friend was returning from her depressed, yearlong wreck of a self. I was nearly correct.

That’s when she blindsided me with those eight cruel words: I don’t want to be your friend anymore.

After I recovered from the startling punch, despite the lump clogging my throat and the tears beginning to sting and blur my vision, I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Recently I’ve decided to leave all my friends. Being by myself is the only way I can feel better."

I was done with texting her at that point.

The whole act was cold, heartless! Hands trembling, heart bursting and sobs shaking, I called her. Her answering voice was tired and flat, free of any standard shared pain. Emotionless. I begged her to let me know she was all right. In my distress, I promised to give her space and always be there for her if she truly needed to be alone.

But she didn’t.

She’s still friends with our friends. I’m still friends with our friends. I still feel like her friend. She’s just not my friend now.

No one except for the two of us even knows that anything bad happened.

I still feel her lay blows to my yellow black bruises, the sign of an incompletely healed heart, as I pass warily by her in the halls every day, ducking my face, hiding.

But she gets to laugh -it's wholeheartedly- at her conversation with the friend I don’t get to see anymore, the friend who unknowingly took her side. She doesn’t see me anymore either, likely by choice. My own best friend.

Then I feel deathly alone.

I’m still not over this feeling, and I hesitate to make new friends. Although I’m often lonely, I've stopped minding. My head is clearer after her. Her erratic behavior made me more cautious when picking my companions, for I don't want another reason to experience how she makes me burn out fresh blooded anger in that cursed hall. I detest the way the anger feels, and I despise the way she can monopolize my pain. However, these feelings brought better control over my idividual emotions. They no longer preoccupy me for more than a minute or two at most. I actually came to this decision myself:

If I can help it, I’ll never let myself be deceived into thinking an impassive is a friend again. Her cruelty gave me a torturous wisdom that surpasses the wish that I could put my personal injuries away forever. I won’t even let myself seek revenge when I wish she felt the same as I did. In fact, I could announce that message at any second to anyone who dares be unkind to me in the future.

For that life lesson, I can never repay her. I can never morally acheive payback.

.

The Point

No point in cleaning my room,

Dirty or not, I don't feel anything, and dirty is easier.

No point, no point, no point, no point.

No point in doing homework,

Six hours later, I feel so tired that my brain forgets everything anyway.

No point, no point, no point, no point.

No point in listening to covering music,

My parents fight too loudly, and even if I manage to feel sleep, I have nightmares of only their yelling voices.

No point, no point, no point, no point.

No point in staying,

But I do, because, for some reason, I feel hope and want for things to be better sometime soon.

Point, point, point, point.

Ten Sentences A Day Keep My Teacher Away: 2

Everyone called him Mr. Faust, despite his mayoral status. He was like a general in plain soldier's clothing on the battlefield, free of decoration and notoriety, safe to lead the faces in his crowd. James was happy to follow that habit because he'd never lower himself to acknowledging his higher ranking. He'd known by meeting Faust's eyes that he was aware of his rightful place under James' boot. The fear told him all.

 Faust couldn't conceal that he'd spotted James in the town marketplace that morning. The brief falter of his expression was enough to tell even the townswoman he spoke with that something was the matter. He wished her well before departing for home. He knew very well that, while leaving to flee again was his only chance, this chance was not in his townspeople's cards.

James pursued him on foot, not caring what level of crud or disease he stepped on, for none could be so loathsome underneath his foot as his beetle escaping through a rubber crack.

Ten Sentences A Day Keep My Teacher Away: 1

Before I begin, I'd like to explain my idea. I enjoy writing stories and don't won't to overwhelm a reader with too many large chunks because this is a blog. Therefore, I will write a mere ten sentences in hopes they will catch someone's eye and improve my writing as a plus. All of these posts will be titled like this one. Thank you.

Inspector James was a reserved and accustomed man. He wasn't bright in his expression but in his spirit, really a creature of unrelenting habit. That is why the beetle frustrated him so. He couldn't crush the thing as he wanted to because it kept skittering out of his reach with it's irritatingly clicking legs. He'd chased it all about the table and never succeed in smashing it. Now, by what must have been a stinking combination of sheer luck and stupidity, the beetle was his presiding mayor, still ever a convict who shouldn't have the boots he must quiver in daily.

John Faust never saw himself as this beetle, instead deciding he was wrongly accused of his crimes. Day in and day out for years without rest, he'd fled James. His journey led him far, to the people of a town where his dead memories lay in a sorry, soggy grave. He'd escaped James for a good time, leaving his generosity and reform to brew in the townspeople long enough for them to call him mayor elect.

James smirked as he thought this: Wonderful. He's just stepped up to the plate for them and will have to return to his dung before I drop that very plate atop him.

The Unattainable 35

I fell in love this weekend.

It's as if a lightning bolt of joy struck it's electric burst through my heart.

I'm giddy inside, my pulse is quickened, and it feels like my insides -my gut, my heart again- are all quivering.

Sir Thomas Moore's poetry, all together in a short, pocket-sized antique. Crisp gold painted edges on the pages and yellowed, sweet smelling paper underneath. I knew I wanted it. I prayed to the spirit of literature because I knew what such a thing was worth, and I did not have that worth. Still, I wanted those words I'd never spoken, read or memorized to grace my lips in silent mouthing. It was a love like no other I'd known because of my youth, friend or family, man or woman. I wanted to beg for that book to come home loosely wrapped in my sweaty palms.

But my love wasn't attainable.

I didn't even have eight whole dollars to my name, and the book would cost me thirty five.

Money kills me sometimes.

Lacking Poetry Prowess...

I am a French revolutionary, a secret agent or a spy, a girl who has but one eye, and I don't use words like solitary (I prefer alone); I am a writer who must do less and a reader who must do more, so toss me a stone.

I may not write thrillingly -or even with merit-, but , if you want the effort, I won't spare it.