I Wouldn't Read This Story Too
During class I sat hunched over my desk, eyes half-dead, the teacher’s voice buzzing somewhere in the background like a dying fly. I wasn’t listening. I had a pen in my hand and a story to write. A girl’s story. She doesn’t have a name. She doesn’t look like anything either. Just my face, unfortunately.
She held a pen like it was something that could fix her. A notebook sat wide open, waiting for her to spill something worth reading. So she did. Poured out thoughts, little scenes and feelings she didn’t really know how to explain out loud.
After a while she looked at what she wrote.
“Is this enough? It’s about—”
That line sounds weak. Grammar’s messy. It’s not flowing right, you should start over.
She stared at the paper. Something sank in her stomach. She sighed, flipped to a clean page and started again. Crossed out this. Rewrote that. Her fingers got tired, so did her head.
“How bout now?” she whispered, not even sure who she was asking.
Still not right. You missed a comma again. The way you said that? It’s kinda clunky.
She blinked a few times and shut the notebook. “But everything seems good.” she muttered. She grabbed her pen again.
She reached for another piece of paper and began to draw instead. Circles, clouds, eyes. Random stuff from her head. It started coming together, a weird little world. Then she stopped and stared. The lines were off. It just looked confused. Like she didn’t even know what it’s supposed to be.
It’s messy, not even close to good. Why’d you waste time on this?
She groaned, crumpled it up and tossed it across the room.
Later, she went to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror and started to sing. Just a simple tune. Something small. Her voice was shaky at first but she kept going. Louder. Clearer. She even closed her eyes when she hit the high note.
You went off-key, that sounded flat. Who do you think you are trying to sing?
She opened her eyes. Her reflection looked like it wanted to disappear.
“…Right,” she muttered, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve, “I should’ve known.”
She changed into her swimsuit. Goggles. Went outside. The pool shimmered, quiet and cold. She dove in and swam fast like she was racing something invisible. But halfway through her kicks got weak. Her form broke. She surfaced, breathless.
You're not supposed to be gasping. This is a bad idea. Just go change your clothes and try something new.
Her head turned slowly toward me, eyes sharp and glassy. She wasn’t sad this time. She was angry, like she finally realized who had been following her through every try, every failed attempt, and every unfinished thing.
“You’re doing it again,” she said, glaring at me.
“You don’t let me finish anything!”
She stood there soaking wet, hair clinging to her face, fists shaking.
“I didn’t even get to read my story without feeling stupid, or enjoy my drawing, or hear my own voice. I didn’t even get to breathe.”
I sighed and handed her my pen instead.
She took it. This time, her hand didn’t shake.
And for once I didn’t say anything at all.
