I wish I knew your name, I wish I knew what face you wore. Sometimes at night I dream that we run into each other here, and we decide to run away.
Before I knew it I was making the walk to the grove even more frequently, starting my sketches during class so I could leave one every time I visited there, and it showed on my report card.
“Wher've you been boy?”
My father yelled as I came through the door. His dark hair was disheveled and the wafting smell of cheap vodka was as strong as antiseptic. In his hand he held a rough mustard tinted envelope. The color drained from my face, I knew exactly what that envelope meant. I didn't have a chance to formulate an excuse.
“You think your such a cool little punk, nineteen absences thirty one tardes, what the fuck is wrong with you, I thought your mother raised you better than that you stupid fuck”
Anger flashed through me and I felt my blood begin to boil. His face was close to mine and I knew vaguely in the back of my mind that I should be attentive and scared of launching fists. I couldn't stand down. My mothers been 'dead' for six years now. Though my father believes she faked her death in order to escape being under surveillance by the government, I would believe that too, if I hadn't felt the hot tears roll down my cheeks, I would believe it if I hadn't seen her cherubic white face lying still in that casket, I might even still believe it if They hadn't lowered that casket into the ground right in front of my eyes. I inched forward, my voice dropped deeper than I had ever heard it.
“Don't bring mom into this, you drunken asshole” I gritted my teeth in time to catch the heavy fist speed into my jaw. I fell, I mildly remember thinking, he's never hit me this hard before my head cracked against the hard wood floor and it was lights out.
Dear Gerard, I'm worried about you, it's been three days and three letters, I haven't seen you at school.
I hope your not too sick, or I hope your dad didn't beat you too badly. When my dad hits me and stuff, Iusually deserve it, but I can't think of any reason you deserve to be hit, or how anyone could hit you or do anything bad to you at all.
Today we had a pep rally and Cami Taylor and the rest of the cheerleaders all came in super drunk, either the faculty didn't notice or they didn't care, but Cami got the the top of the period and then sneezed and fell over knocking all of them down. It was hilarious. Afterwards I helped Jessica the one Mexican chick on the team in the bathrooms and I held her hair while she puked, we're sort of friends but sort of not. She says I'm kind, but I think anyone would do the same, unless they're other bitchy cheerleaders.
Sorry for ranting, no one's here to make me shut up when it's just the pen and I.
Till tomorrow (hopefully),
I read her letter again, carefully folding the only drawing I'd done in the past few days, and dropping it into the gallon size zip lock bag we had began keeping since the Autumn rain had come. It had been almost two months and I had only managed fourteen prints. Granted, I made each sketch as perfect as I would if I knew this was her.
That's hilarious, I liked Jessica before she was one of the cheers, back in 4th grade. Oops I forgot to write dear F.I. Sigh, I wish I knew your name, I wish Iknew what face you wore. Sometimes at night I dream that we run into each other here, and we'd decide to run away and hop a train, we never arrive at our destination, and the way you look always changes, in one dream you were actually a guy, I don't think it really made a difference though, in the dream I mean.
I'm fine, my dad got my report card in the mail and I just got a good punch in the face, the real injury was the sudden stop at the end of the fall. I hit my head on the floor and got a concussion.
I really hate that you think you deserve whatever your dad does to you, I don't think a parent should hit their kid in any circumstance, and I spit on any man who would hit a girl. (Not to be sexist). If I could ever intervene for you Iwould. Anyway, life fucking sucks, I think I want to run away now, more than ever.
I set down my pen staring, without reading what I had just written. I want to leave so badly, the only thing in this town I had going for me was a girl who I'm falling for, who I've never even met. It's crossed a line to think she feels that way about me though. Sometimes I wonder if her words are true, would I dislike her if I met her and she was, I don't know, fat of ugly or one of the cheers, would it bother me?
I quickly signed the page looking at my phone. I only skipped two classes today so Ishouldn't be counted absent. I sealed the bag, and headed 'home'.
I know it's short Beautiful Readers but I have to wake up in 17 minutes... also Ihave a two month old brother to take care of at night so it's been cramping my sty....le...writing..er...Shouldn't you be reviewing right now or something? Also, If y'all have rating points you never use, throw 'em my way if you like the story, don't be shy. ^_^
-Sincerely, Your Fav Fag Writing Hag, D'mitri- (Fucking) Way