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A Cry for Help

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It’s so utterly ridiculous. I grind my pencil deeper into the cover of my notebook, mulling over everything that happened. It seems like the whole world is out to get me. And not in the usual, cliché way, either. I’m halfway through the cover, I think.
Okay, maybe a little. But unlike most stories you read, it really wasn’t my fault, and it’s not like there are any valuable lessons to learn from it. Just how asinine humans can be. Especially the male ones. But not just them. Now I’ve broken through the cover, starting on the brown-orange pocket folder.
So I have a lot of friends, right? Most people do. And most have at least one BFF that they text every 5 seconds and chat with 24/7. I don’t have that, though. I don’t even have a phone with texting. I only have a crappy black Nokia flip-phone with about 2 KB of memory. And sure, I talk to my friends, but all of them are drifting away. I don’t know why. They won’t tell me.
The graphite slices through my most recent homework assignment- Workbook Page 56, Parts A, B, and F. Yeah, that’s right- F.
So then there’s this friend I’ve had for about 2 years now. I knew him since science class in 7th grade. He, me, and another boy named David got a long quite well, until the year ended and we started 8th grade. I never see David anymore. He’s off swimming every other millisecond.
Now the silver line is cutting through the 5th sheet of flimsy computer paper.
But I was in math class with the first boy this year. We were like brother and sister, we’d chat every day. I thought that I would be able to teach him the way of the tribe, my culture. However, I was disillusioned. He lied, he broke his promises, and he was disrespectful. But I, for some dumb reason, still trusted him, the sniveling self-centered jerk. I gave him chance after chance to redeem himself. He didn’t. I found myself despising him, trying to wittily outsmart him in every conversation. It worked, and we grew farther apart. I hated myself.
The lead snaps, and I glared at my pencil. Pencils are so stupid- so overrated. Pens are much better. But you can’t stab a liar with a pen and expect it to hurt.
Then the worst thing happened. One of my closest correspondents died. We would write stories together, tell jokes together, chat together. I loved Kari so much. When Rae told me what had happened, as they both live 2000 miles away, my heart practically cracked. My mood grew worse and worse, and I would start lashing out. I still kept my grades all nice and happy, did my chores cheerfully, and didn’t do anything drastic like cutting, but inside I was in torment. I couldn’t help but want to talk to Kari, now that she was able to see everything.
That was when I got self-conscious. She could see everything- my fears, my lies, the way I now treated the boy I once felt sibling-like close to. She was there, in the classroom, as Ms. Amar played My Immortal, the song that played at her funeral, when we studied ballads. I stayed to hear out the song, in her memory- then I escaped to the bathroom to recollect myself.
The pencil turned in the sharpener, and curls of color-tipped tan shavings fall from the blade. My scratching at the notebook resumes into the groove from before.
And so then, in my self-awareness, I remembered God. I mean, I knew He was always there. I prayed to Him every night since I was 11, I think. But now I had to guard my thoughts- any innocent wonderings could be blasphemy. I knew that Jesus and God wouldn’t add more to my torture, but a small voice in my mind thought I deserved it. I tried to ignore the idea, but it only faded slightly. Still there, like a crouching tiger hiding in the underbrush.
But you see, the one aspect in my life that I loved above all else was nature. The bubbling of a brook, the twitter of a bird, the crinkling of the autumn-tinged leaves as I walked upon the colorful fall grass- it was all sweet innocence. How could something so beautiful be so wrong?
My destroying of my notebook lightens slighty. Barely. But nevertheless.
I soon discovered the answer. I was reading an article about combined religions, for my paper on first amendment rights. I came across two terms- Trinitarian Wicca and Wiccan Christianity. I did not know what either of these were- dictionary.com and Wikipedia helped.
Wicca combined with Christianity seemed so peaceful, and so good. Nature, God, Jesus, respect, life, love, magic. Everything that I adore. I was ready to convert.
But then I saw the hateful comments beneath some of the articles on websites. Accusations of Satanism and consorting with the Devil blared out at me. I suddenly felt the wave of guilt wash over me, exhausting me. I had read the Rede and the Three-fold law; how could something so seemingly harmless be associated with something so evil? I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. Nature became blasphemy. My fantasy novels became blasphemy. My guilt from feeling blasphemy became blasphemy.
The snappishness increased- the insecurity increased. The boy and I don’t talk without fighting. I cried in the shower. I sobbed silent tears as I tried to sleep- the insomnia insisted on taking over my mind. I asked for guidance from God- I didn’t know how to read the reply. I turned to my parents.
My father is open-minded, but still doesn’t believe in spirits of nature like I do. My mother doesn’t even believe in magic. If I told them what I was really thinking, instead of my made-up fairytales spun out of thin air to protect myself from their protection, they would never be able to look at me again. And a lie is a sin.
I won’t stop believing in God and Jesus. I know that God is there. I feel, though, like He has abandoned me. But maybe, the voice says, Maybe I abandoned Him. I can't talk without being judged. I can't speak the words that are in my head without being hated.
I’ve practically destroyed my notebook now.
Just like I’ve destroyed my mind.



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