Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Whispers

Whispers. They’re not meant to be heard. They’re silent muses in which one can express whatever jarring, bashing or disheartening things they wish. That is, of course, until one overly confident person raises their voice just a bit louder than the others, their comment just a bit more hurtful. The time for whispers is shattered by the single person who no longer cares whose feelings are hurt, or who will be affected by their opinions. Suddenly, the whole world of hushed conversation is hooked up to an amplifier, the insults broadcast for all to hear.
They sneer, like you’re a piece of scum on the bottom of their shoe. They mumble to themselves, laughing when things aren’t funny, mocking you when your back is turned. Anything to degrade you.
“Freak…”
“Run home to your mommy, loser.”
They know nothing. They see me stumble, running as fast as I can. They make their own theories on my destination. They joke and taunt me, but it’s not my own life that I’m running for.
They see me as the loser who trips over herself every day, stumbling down the stairs of the beat-up yellow school bus. They think I run home because I’m anxious to see my mother, or to be on time for my favorite television show.
These people are wrong. Each day, I stumble off the bus, hands shaking with fear, my heart racing along with my feet. I sprint, carrying myself frantically up the long gravel driveway. I bang through the door, never slowing down.
“Caleb!” I shout, pushing my way through the cluttered entryway, the rooms whipping by me in a blur. Finally, I burst into my older brother’s bedroom. I don’t want to look. Each and every day, this is the way it goes. I force myself to look at the rumpled bed, fearing that one day he will not be there—that one day, my brother will be lying lifelessly on the floor. Every day, I come into his room to find him sitting silently on his messy bed, still here, still living. I sit with him for hours, holding back the tears that are threatening to spill over. I shove away the snide remarks and jarring comments of my classmates to get here, to this spot, just to be sure that my brother has not taken his own life.
But it’s not enough—Nothing ever is. One day, I step slowly, numbly off the school bus, the winter chill whipping my loose hair against my face. My right foot lands slowly on the gravel of the driveway. “Run!” my mind screams. But my left foot follows the first just as slowly. They carry me at the same dawdling pace all the way up to the house. No whispers follow me. A few confused looks through the dirty windowpanes of the bus are the only reaction that I receive. They have gotten their wish. I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.
I no longer have a reason to run.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback