Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Seventeen

Summer went both faster and slower than it had in the past. It went faster because I was getting older, which meant that three months was a smaller fraction of my life than it had been a year ago. It went slower because now, I was absolutely friendless and alone. At least Jeremee had been around to annoy me last summer. Now, I had absolutely no one.

Even my mom had voiced that she was getting sick of my violin playing, and teaching the violin was her job. It was basically all I did- procrastinating the school assignment for another week. I’d gotten my letters from the school that told me that I was still ranked first in the class (I put that in my violin case’s pocket) and that orientation was in two days. But I would be busy that afternoon- I had finally been promised a lesson from m mother on Schindler’s List, since we had never quite perfected it. Since that was the only time my mom was available, I smartly agreed.

Seventeen. I’m seventeen. It feels like I just turned twelve yesterday- it really does. Wasn’t that what started this whole mess in the first place? My sixth and seventh grade years were pretty clear, but everything else in the middle had just been one big blur. And now there I was, looking back and reflecting upon those things. No wonder I was messed up, considering what had happened to me. And in the end, it was my own fault.

Everyone blames me for their problems- it’s a fact. I blame myself for mine too, of course. How could I not? That’s just the way it is. Lies that are repeated tend to sound like the truth- not that I’d ever been good at discerning the truth from lies in the first place. I couldn’t- and didn’t- deny the fact that I was one messed up person.

I gazed into a broken shard of glass that had acted as my mirror for so long that I couldn’t remember not having it. My own eyes frightened me. They were haunted, empty, desperate, soulless, and terrible. I had never noticed that I had been slowly dying all this while- neglected, unloved (not that I believed in love- never have, never will), abused, and used. Was this really me? Was this really the person that I had turned into?

I swallowed heavily. Yes, this was me. That was my face, and those were my eyes. I had to look away. I set the makeshift mirror down. Seventeen years of living in this world haven’t helped me. And if there’s a God out there, he certainly isn’t helping me out either.

I collapsed on the bed, knees buckling beneath me, and found that I was so emotionless that I couldn’t cry. That realization should have brought tears, but it didn’t, and I was only consumed further by the pit of darkness in my body that only seemed to get bigger and bigger, threatening to swallow me whole as I wallowed in my own misery with absolutely no way out…



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback