Categories > Original > Drama


by krispies 1 review

Ever wonder about the girl who sits silently in the back of the room, hidden beneath sweatshirts and music? One girl's vignette.

Category: Drama - Rating: R - Genres: Angst - Warnings: [X] - Published: 2005-05-09 - Updated: 2005-05-10 - 1810 words - Complete


She wonders how many of them see her -- really see her -- as she hides. Sits in the back of the classroom, hiding inside her oversized jeans and too-large sweatshirts, the hood pulled up to cover hair the color of soot, usually pulled into some kind of messy, half-ponytail or attempted bun, held in place with an elastic that's a stark white, an incredible contrast to her hair. Wonders if they see the envy that dances within her eyes, eyes the color of an ocean at night, a deep, penetrating blue that would strike to the core if met, electricity surging through the limbs at the meeting of that midnight gaze, a blue so dark it's almost black.

She pays attention to a minimum, preferring to drown out the teacher with her headphones, the CD player small enough, compact enough, to be tucked into the pocket on the front of her too-large sweatshirt, some kind of loud or thoughtful music playing, Tori or Vienna or God forbid Evanescence, her lips moving soundlessly to the music so no one will actually hear her sing. Her mother didn't understand when she said she didn't want to join chorus because that would mean the spotlight, being noticed, in a school where to be noticed would mean being ridiculed, and that's everything she wants to avoid. She prefers to sit unobtrusive in her corner, hidden in her hoodies, a wall of music between her ears and the teacher's lips, a black pen in her hand scribbling poetry and possibly prose in her notebook, but it looks like she's taking notes the whole time. She keeps up the pretense, and for all her lack of attention, she's a decent enough student to avoid academic probation and the phone calls home that would mean.

People laugh when they hear her name, saying, "Wasn't that a president?" Saying how silly it is for someone to name their daughter after a president, not understanding that it was a family name, her mother's maiden name, and she didn't want it disappearing, but it won't be passed on because she has three daughters and no sons. She had problems with the last baby and now she can't have any more children, it could kill her, the doctors said. She sits in her back corner and somehow manages to correct her teachers when they say her name wrong, the first syllable being pronounced "ree" like "review" and not "ray" like the sunlight that falls through the blinds and leaves prison bars on the chairs in the classroom. She likes her name, knowing it's unique enough that she won't hear it all the time, unlike all the clones, the carbon copies that were part of some name boom in the 80's, their mothers scrambling to find out the name of the moment and quickly slap that label on their own unsuspecting daughter, feeling she'll be unique, she'll stand out, especially if they spell the name some other way that no one else ever has before.

The bell rings at the end of class, and she shoves her notebook into her bag, slinging the heavy black object over one shoulder after making sure it's firmly clasped so her things don't get destroyed by the masses in the hallway. Vienna is singing in her ears about a car crash and she wonders absently what it would be like to die in a car crash. Too messy, she thinks, all the broken glass, twisted metal, heat, fire, blood ripping from her veins because bleeding to death is more painful than people think, they think it's such a quiet death but it's probably the loudest death in the world. No, if she had to die, she'd do it in a quieter, simpler way, take all her mother's sleeping pills, drown, overdose on aspirin, cut her throat, but not so she could be saved; no her suicide would have to be final. No chance of coming back, not for her when she's already so far gone.

She makes it outside without being accosted by the crowd, by the pretty girls who think she, with her sweatshirts, jeans, lack of makeup, and ugly hair is an insult to the female gender. They don't know how creative she is, how she writes, locks herself in her room at night and paints in shades of red, blue, green, black, gray, white, and yellow; the scenes of the day, the sky as the sun sets, the clouds that herald the breaking of a thunderstorm or a blizzard. They see her as a freak, something to be avoided like the plague, and if they saw her room it would only confirm their fears with it's dark blue walls covered with her art, painting and writing supplies scattered around the floor, her bed a mess of black and purple sheets, clothes strewn across every available surface. She's not neat and her mother and sisters have given up trying to make her be something she's not, they've learned their lesson. She's a slob, but in a sense she's neat with everything being where she knows it is and where she wants it to be.

She makes it off the school grounds with Vienna singing in Chinese, and though she doesn't understand the words the melody is simple and brings back memories of her childhood, even though she's not Chinese, instead being a mixture of several European races with perhaps a bit of Mexican thrown in for good measure. It's in her skin tone and her hair, and her last name which she inherited from a father who she rarely sees, so tied up is he with work. She doesn't mind since it's easier to be invisible than noticed, and her sisters and mother are busy with their own lives, so they won't notice if she doesn't come home right away, if she goes to the beach like she's planned. Oh, she has it all planned, down to what she plans to say before she does it. She isn't worried about whether or not she'll actually do it, she's been thinking about it for too long not to do it, she only hopes that no one's around. No one needs to play the hero for her, the girl with the president's name and hair like soot and eyes like the ocean at night.

She hopes he'll be there like he promised because she doesn't want to do it without knowing one last Earthly pleasure, something she's longed for but never felt ready to do, but she's ready now. She makes her way to the beach and the CD has started over, Vienna singing about moons and breathing and it just makes her more ready for what she wants as she walks down the wooden steps to the beach, her shoes sinking in the sand, and she sees him from a distance, a dark splotch against the sky. There are no words when she reaches his side, and she drops her bag and discards her headphones and CD player, hands twining, reaching, grabbing for his neck as her mouth melds to his, tongues battling for dominance as if she'll swallow him whole before she does it. The beach is secluded and no one's around as they shed their clothing like flowers losing their petals, and when he finally takes her, her world explodes in pain and pleasure as if her body's being ripped apart piece by piece as he thrusts into her. She rakes his back with her nails but neither of them ever makes a sound until she comes and suddenly the world is dazzling with purple and black lights and she screams with the sheer ecstasy of it, and begs him to do more, to move faster, quicker, don't stop now, fuck me more, please, yes.

And when he's finished and asleep beside her and her body is warm and glazed with a thin sheen of sweat, and she's sore in a place that's never been truly sore before, she knows it's time. She stands and though she's naked she feels no shame standing in the wind with her hair blowing free, drifting across her shoulders and eyes, listening to the waves crash along the shore. They muffle sound those waves and he'll never know she's gone, never know what she's done until the sea gives her up miles and miles away and he'll know. They'll all finally know her and she won't be invisible anymore, but no one will know she didn't die a virgin but she doesn't care what they think anymore because the wind is cold and she's shaking, naked skin asking for covering, wanting her to meld her body back to his and for him to take her, fuck her again and again until she's too sore to move, to do what needs to be done. For she's certain this couldn't end any other way, otherwise they'll never know who she is and don't they always honor artists posthumously anyway? How could anyone enjoy her stories, poems, paintings, and sketches while she's still around to hoard them in her dresser and desk and locker, never permitting anyone to read them, except sometimes him because he pretends to understand, while everyone else scoffs and says what is this trash and tosses it and her aside.

It's cold and dark and she's sore and ready and she takes the first step, the sand shifting between her toes and her hair playing along her skin like phantom fingers, his fingers trying to tell her to stay with him, she doesn't have to do this because he doesn't understand, none of them understand. Slowly she moves forward until she's at the water's edge and then she stops and glances back and sees his form on the beach lying pillowed on their clothes, and she asks his forgiveness one last time before she moves into the water, stopping only when the coldness, the iciness of it touches her sex. She moves farther in until it covers her breasts, the nipples hardening from the cold, and still she doesn't stop moving forward, not looking back, thinking they'll remember me now, the girl in the back of the class with the hoodies and the CD player who wrote even as she pretended to take notes, the girl with the president's name.

The water closes over her head.
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