Yesterday, I came to the realization that it must be pretty tough to follow this website. One second, I’m 14 years old. Then I’m writing in present day. The next day I’m 7. Tomorrow, I might be 15. The timeline to my life is all kinds of fucked up.
Apparently, this leaves my poor readers strangely unsettled. “Your character is not consistent!” they cry.
First of all, I am not a character. My life is not a movie directed by a wise man with a definite agenda. I wish it was. I suspect if that were the case, I’d have an easier time getting to the fucking point.
People wonder how I can go from being a sweet girl who always followed the rules to an angry, violent child who ultimately ended up in juvenile detention herself.
What can I say?
A long time ago, nothing mattered more in the world to me than being a good girl who pleased her parents. Then my Father died, and I changed. Pretty soon, my Mother might as well have died too (for all the good she was to our family) and I changed some more. Then, my brother looked at me with sad, scared eyes and I changed a little bit more. I made mistakes and got angry with myself and wondered if everything I did was pointless and I changed a little more. I met people and saw the same sad, scared eyes that I saw when I looked at my brother and I….changed a little more.
What? Did you guys think I popped out of the womb a raving bitch? Hell no, it’s a process.
I try to tell these stories, but I’m the last one who should. I bounce around too much, I digress often, and I’m easily distracted. I don’t envy those of you coming along for the ride. All I can say to you is, thanks for trying to follow this mess. And please bear with me and all my inadequacies as a writer; I’ll try my best to work it all out for you in the end.
As for Daniel and ‘Part 2’ of the story….ugh. Are you sure you even want a Part 2?
I mean, I could tell you that Daniel and I remained friends for a long time after that. I could tell you he was the first boy to ever kiss me and it happened behind the tool shed at the park across the street from his house. I could tell you I panicked during the kiss because I had no idea what I was doing. So I pulled back and I jumped up and I backed away from him like he was some wild beast.
I could tell you how he leaned back in the grass and smiled a lazy, smug smile because this was the first time he had ever seen me flustered. I could tell you how I stuttered and blushed and went home and put ice on my lips because I thought he had burned me.
I could tell you that his father never stopped hitting him, but Daniel did start hitting him back. I could tell you that the violence never ended until Daniel got in trouble with the police again and landed himself back in Juvenile Detention. I could laugh cynically and claim the only way society knows how to solve these problems is by locking someone up like an animal.
I wrote Daniel some letters. He never answered. I guess I could tell you about that as well.
I could tell you that it was a couple of years before I saw Daniel again. It was late at night and I was alone at the park…which is where I go to this very day when I’m feeling particularly low. He walked up to me on the swings and asked me if I wanted to see his new car. I walked across the street to his house and complimented his vehicle. Then, we made out on the hood of that new car.
I could tell you that while we were making out, I was thinking about our first kiss behind the shed at the park. I was thinking about his lazy, smug smile and how nervous I was because I didn’t know what I was doing. I could tell you that by this point in my life, I most definitely knew what I was doing, and I kissed Daniel in such a way that it almost felt as if I were showing off.
I could tell you that I felt no passion for Daniel. He had changed. He was quiet now, sad, beaten down. I had changed too. I was desperately sad, but still loudly and furiously fighting back. But I still kissed him, over and over, on the hood of his car. I did it because of the way he smiled at me three years ago and because I wanted to tie the score. It was almost as if we were playing ping pong.
And really, who goes on making out with thoughts of ping pong in their head?
I could tell you I pushed Daniel away before things went any further. I could tell you I promised to call, but I never called. Every time I felt bad about this, I would remind myself that he never wrote.
I could tell you about how I bumped into Daniel just a couple of years ago. He was mowing lawns for a living to support a toxic girlfriend and a bastard child. I could tell you that his life is nothing to write home about, which, I guess, must have been the reason why he never wrote home.
I could tell you all of this. But would you want to hear it?
Hollywood has trained you all to expect a happy ending. But I don’t have any happy endings. All I have is a bunch of fucked up kids who grew up to be fucked up adults. I’m afraid reality is not as inspirational as theater.
His Father did go blind, though.
So, there’s your justice.
There’s your happy ending.
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