Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Writing Wednesday: FML or whatever I'm going to call this damn thing.


    Keep in mind, most this stuff I post is unedited.  A first run.  And it's Rated R.  Feel free to give me your thoughts.

As I exited the cafeteria I heard someone call, “Syd!”  I turned around and Zach was chasing me down.  Even though whatever he had to say was sure to be awkward, I waited.
     When he reached me, he said, “Syd, I’m not mad at you.”
     I continued walking toward my locker.  He followed.  “Good,” I said.  “But, Zach, I don’t want—”
     “No, I know, that was stupid of me to tell you how I felt, or even suggest it.”
      I touched his arm gently.  I wanted to show him it was okay without sending mixed signals.  “It’s fine.  Really.”
     “But, we can still be friends, right?  Hang out and stuff?”
     I looked up at him, “Yeah, sure.  I’d like that.”
    “You doing anything Friday night?”  It was starting to sound like he was asking me on a date.  Luckily, I already had plans.
     “I just made plans with Lacy,” I said.  “Maybe another time.”
     His head dropped, barely noticeable to a less discerning eye.  I got it.  This was him going to woo me and make me fall in love with him.  No thanks.  I knew what love did to people.  It made them stupid and weak.  I was not that girl anymore.  In fact, I didn’t want to be her at all.  It was time for a new Sydney to emerge.  A Sydney that was apathetic and aloof.  A dark and mysterious Sydney.  I would take care of it right after school.
     I didn’t get home until eight o’clock after a trip to the mall and the hair stylist.  I tried to sneak into the house without being seen.  I was afraid of the reaction I would get to my new hair, and frankly, I wasn’t in the mood.  No luck, as I  ran into Tammy just as I entered the hallway.
     “Oh my god!  What did you do?” she asked circling me to check out my new hairdo.  “Mom’s going to have a shit fit you know.” 
     Then Bryce came out of his room.  “What’s going o—holy shit!  Syd!”
     They were so frustrating. “Jesus, it’s just hair.  Leave me alone.”  I pushed past them to my room, slamming the door behind me.  I dropped my shopping bags and  immediately grabbed the the box from the top shelf of my closet, in which I kept my blade, and my bloody washcloth.  I sat down.  I pulled my shoes off.  I stripped my pants off and I cut.  And it hurt, but it felt so fucking good to release.  I watched as the blood dripped down my thigh and seeped into the washcloth.  Soon enough the entire cloth would be blood red.  I wiped the blade with a clean section, wiped the blood from my leg, then fell back on my bed.
     After a few minutes I stood up and went to my mirror. Staring at the face before me, I compared her to the old me.  My hair was once long, brown, with bouncing curls at the ends.  I’d had it cut short.  Really short.  The dark brown it used to be was now jet black with a purple streak.  It was so black it was almost blue, but the hairstylist said it would tame down after a few washings.  It made my face look pasty.  I cried.  Just a little.  The person in the mirror was a stranger to me, but I chose to be her, didn’t I?  I wanted to be someone else and now I was. 
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John Messina, Personal Injury Attorney

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