24 Hours

That day didn't seem particularly sad or unfortunate, but it pissed me off anyhow. It pissed me off because it reminded me of every other day. It had all the same mundane qualities that made me want to tear my hair out. It ate away ate me like ants on a decaying corpse. I didn't feel inspired or depressed, just stupefied. I didn't want anyone to relate to me, because I didn't care. I couldn't be bothered by more friends or more time with family. There was just a sense of boredom that came with my existence that I felt I couldn't escape. Deep inside I knew that escaping was the only possibility of keeping me alive. I couldn't go much longer in this complacent matrix. I wanted out.


My therapist was a tall blonde, with a short straight haircut. She had thin lips and big eyes, as if she spent most of her time shocked at her clients, and part of the time disappointed. I could hardly answer her questions at times because she would just look at me with such a strained sense of confusion. Was I her only patient? I thought to myself.

"So why don't you just escape?", she said as she twirled her hair like she was flirting with a high school quarterback. I'll admit that I didn't quite know what to say. It woke me up though. Even after all the coffee I had that morning, I felt sluggish until she asked that question. For some reason I felt strangely offended. I had thought of this question countless times before, yet when she said it out loud, it sounded foreign.

"And where would I escape to?" I said trying to act as if her forwardness hadn't bothered me at all. I could see her eyes getting thinner as she tried to read how I reacted to her question. She was very obvious about it, and so it took her a while to compose herself and answer.

"Anywhere you want!", she exclaimed acting like a teenager all caught up in the moment. She was either very youthful or just immature, I hadn't decided yet.

The session ended quite quickly after she couldn't get something that she wanted from me. Her wide expressive eyes began fade, as her eyelids began to droop. She didn't look excited anymore, just disappointed. I wasn't at all bothered by this. I began think of the possibilities. I went over the details of my life with a fine tooth comb. I didn't feel very proud, or nostalgic. I was more excited flipping through a magazine. All I could think about were the vivid images of living: Surfing, meditating, hiking, diving off cliffs. I didn't want to be a tourist, I wanted to be completely integrated. I wanted to be free.

Best Of Both

The feeling of hopelessness for the person you love, is one of the worst pains that anyone can endure. I remember all the competitions we used to have and all the sneaky tricks we used to play on each other. I regret not savoring those moments together. I regret not pausing to take it all in.
The nostalgic memories only bring back some of the warm fuzzy feelings I used to feel. After the accident, I am only left with those unsatisfying thoughts of how we used to be.

The Life Of Luella Pt. 2

I tried to read his face, before he even spoke. She was home, no wait, he's squinting, shes not.

"Yea she's home", hes says while giving that awkward strange look he always gives me. He's smiling but not really, and his eyelids look heavy and weak. I hate it. You would of thought that he had noticed the politely disgusted look on my face. Was he hitting on me? For some reason my naive thoughts won't let me go there. I think a lot, and I even chuckle to myself from time to time. Which is probably a good indication that i think TOO much. I'm not going to go there.

"Okay, could you let her know I'm here to pick her up?", I say while looking at the Jehovah's witness awkwardly look around with a nervous smile on his face, then look down at his watch and walk away. They usually come in two's, that's weird. I guess technically they can go out on their own and canvass at there own time. But who would want to? That guy of course, and a few very motivated people. Wow, shouldn't I be thinking of something else? Or should I not be thinking at all? I'm probably worrying now. Oh great.

The Life of Luella Pt. 1

By the time I was 17 I had already done many things. I had almost a dozen different jobs, I had all types of relationships, and my experiences were both empowering and shocking. My journey isn't easy to tell, and many people I'm sure, would be offended just listening to it. That part of my life, holds my deepest and darkest secrets. These are my adolescent years, this is my story.

When I went over, her older brother was arguing with a Jehovah's Witness at the door. The Witness was in a crisp light grey suit, he had nicely combed hair with just a small amount of gel and a large welcoming grin on his face. From his hand was a distressed leather briefcase. David, Marissa's 32 year old brother who still lived at home, was wearing the craziest button up shirt I had ever seen. Mice were playing badminton matches, strategically placed all over the garment. Hideous. It was just like me to analyze an outfit at the first opportunity. Was I that shallow? Maybe I'm just observant, or curious. That certainly sounds better.

"Hi Greg", I say while standing sheepishly behind the Witness.

They both stopped their bickering and slowly adjusted their gaze toward me. I smiled a quick small smile, trying to be somewhat polite. "Is Marissa home?"

Thoughts

I don't think I ever quite found a way to be happy. I have a few friends, many goals, but few resources, at least I think so. Sometimes jealousy would overcome me when I compared myself to someone that looks calm and happy. I don't expect to be happy, but I sure damn want to be.

I worry a lot. I wish the word carefree applied in some way to my own personality. If I could find a way not to think so much I would; not to dwell on something so insignificant, then the next day it wouldn't even matter. Its hard to pretend nothing is wrong. People see me differently, they don't know. I don't even think I know.

I feel fragile; everything upsets me. I am so fucking damn irritated. I can't sit, or stand. My thoughts control me, and I wish I had an off switch.

Fishing

The truck was white. Her face was stained with blood. Nothing would stop him from hitting her. If no one came she would die. She yelled on top of her lungs, but no one heard, she cried but he didn't care. If she disappeared no one would even notice. Night would turn to day, and daybreak would awaken her little sister who slept close to the window. She slept with one eye open and one hand underneath her pillow, where a small pocket knife was cradled.

"Why do you sleep so close to the window?", the blond girl asked puzzled

"Because while your sleeping, I grind my teeth, waiting, wondering if Satans soldier will finally come and mutilate my body".

The blond girl laughed awkwardly, shifting her eyes then flipping her hair, "where's you're bathroom?"

The brunette smiled brightly at her; "we don't fucking have one".

Hidden

Irena Sendler was a Polish Catholic Social worker who saved 2, 500 Jewish Children, smuggling them out of the Warsaw Ghetto. She provided them with false documents and sheltered them in different group children's homes outside the Ghetto.


It was easy to look like a Polish Catholic, but it was much harder to actually say the words, that I was one. The most difficult part was watching my people go off to die while I stood sullenly to the side, my hair in two innocent braids behind my ears. I wanted to burst into tears as I saw my teachers, my classmates, and my neighbours marching with their suitcases in the street. There were women, children, and babies among the crowd. The Nazis took everyone. I wanted so desperately to join the march to the Ghetto, so that I could share in their despair. I knew though, that if I did, I would definitely be shot. I was only thirteen, but I knew that even though it was wrong to pretend I was Arian, it was much worse to give up and die.

November 1943, Poland

Irena pulled the covers tight around my body the way I liked it most. She wiggled me after she was done and placed her finger on my nose.
"You must be good, Angela", she says with a warm smile, "be on you best behaviour".
I began to feel an inexpressible sadness come over me. I thought of my mother and father who gave me to Irena just a week ago. A tear falls gently down my cheek.
" Why do you cry Angela?", she says with a pained look on her face.
" I cry because I know I will have to leave you Irena", I say wiping my tears from my face "and I'm scared I will never see my parents again".
"Your parents would want you to be brave", Irena says with a pause "they would want you to fight".

She says goodnight, and leaves. I try to close my eyes but my heart is thumping too loud to sleep. I lie there wide awake, wondering where my parents are, and where my little sister has been placed. I squint really tight, and wish that none of this happened, that we could be a happy family again. When I open my eyes, I'm still alone in the small, cold bedroom.