There was just something not right, something missing.
xoxodakota. Oh and in case anyone was wondering, the girl in the story is NOT based on me, it was actually my friends idea to call her that as for some reason she actually thinks my name is cool.)
My mothers cruel and hurtful words echo in my often unfocused, wandering mind throughout that evening, the memories of them still taunting me, the harsh words being repeated over and over again in my head, poisoning my already twisted brain.
How dare she speak to me like that? How could she, my own mother still treat me like this, as though I was an unimportant, worthless waste of space with no talents or use in this cold, confusing world. True, I was not the most hardworking person in this town when it came to the subjects that were taught and valued in school. I daydreamed far too much to be able to concentrate for long, but I had always excelled in my creative writing and art lessons. I was not totally useless, I had believed it throughout my entire childhood, but now, as a recently turned twenty three year old, as an adult, I refused to let her, my own mother, or anyone else for that matter, tell me what I was and wasn`t.
I was a good person, I was not evil, I never hurt anyone intentionally, unlike her and it wasn`t as though I wanted to disappoint anyone, I always tried to ensue I made my parents proud, but I always seemed to fail, not matter what I did. So what, I wasn`t perfect, I wasn’t the pop loving, high earning girly daughter they had expected, but I was still there daughter and they should support me and love me. They said they did, they insisted it, but I knew that deep down, they were ashamed of me, both of them. To tell the truth, most of the time, I was ashamed of me.
Here I was, twenty three years old, a law school dropout, living in the boring countryside in England with nothing to show for myself. I worked in a local newsagents, earning minimum wage, and lived in a run down, one bedroom flat, alone. I was constantly daydreaming, creating fantasy worlds and desperately wanting to escape into them, creating drawings of other places, places I longed to be. I longed to be anywhere, apart from here, in my boring and lonely reality.
Perhaps my mother was right…maybe it was time for me to get my act together, to knock some common sense into my stupid, useless brain. I wasn`t normal, I knew that, I had been told that since the day I could listen, but I just was unable to fit in here, in this town, or with anyone in it. I just wasn`t on the same page as all of the others here, they were all content and happy with their boring, same old, some old lives, whereas I wanted adventure and excitement, I craved it. I was unable to fit in here, I never had done and I often doubted I ever would fit in anywhere.
Over the next few weeks and months that followed I threw myself into my writing and my artwork, working harder than I ever had before to create something special, even if it was only to be seen by my own emerald eyes only. I rarely left the almost bare, untidy flat, save for shopping and work. Mother and father visited less often, making their unconvincing excuses of doctor’s appointments and working onetime shifts. I was not sorry for this, though a small part of me wondered if I should feel guilty for not wishing to see them. They were my parents after all; they had brought me into this world, this uncaring, beautifully haunting and at times confusing and evil world.
I finished the sketch of the four men, the Fabulous Killjoys, after redoing it several times, and I was very unhappy with it, there was just something missing. The picture was simple enough, the four of them stood outside a rundown diner in some desert type world, their bright, rebellious looking clothing standing out remarkably against the sandy background. Ray guns were held in their hands or in holsters, coloured brightly as well, their hair messy and clothes a little dirty looking. They were rebels, these killjoys, I knew that. But what it was they were rebelling against I was uncertain of.
I had come to a halt in my story that centred around these men; I simply had no clue about where to go with it, whatever I wrote in my messy, crimson red writing didn’t seem to work. There was just something not right, something missing.
With a sigh I place the red inked pen down, slamming shut the velvet black note book, a slight frown on my pale face. I was so frustrated. I was unable to continue writing, and I felt that I had to, I felt as though I needed to finish this story. I was going insane, I was sure of it, I loved this idea so much, and it was quickly becoming a part of me, the story, along with the characters in it. It was becoming a part of me, and I had to write it, I felt compelled to finish it, even though it would be pointless to continue, seeing as it would never see the light of day as a published novel.
But looking into the deep, tired somewhat pained yet still smiling eyes of the four men, I knew that I had to keep writing, I felt that though they were a work of fiction, that they were truly real and that I had to tell their story.
I curl up that night under the soft, warm crimson covers, pulling them tightly over my small, tired body. I was exhausted, my head hut and I was frustrated. I had just had a call from my father; he was apparently worried about me. As if. Sleep takes me almost instantly, for once. When I was asleep I was probably at my happiest, apart from when I was writing or drawing. Unless I had one of my many nightmares, then it was pure torture. But at least, whilst sleeping your were released, for that small amount of time, from the tyranny of conscious thoughts. I slept dreamlessly that night, the first time in a long while, succumbing to the darkness. It was neither welcoming nor frightening, it was just there.
I wakened the next morning in a completely different world to my own, staring up into the eyes of a familiar stranger…
hi. me again. just wondering if anyone was actualy reading this?