Author's note: This is one of my first novels I have written. I really enjoyed writing it and am looking forward... Show full author's note »
SamIf you talk to me, it is considered social suicide.
The only person who ever talks to me is Nancy Ford, a girl who is desperately in need of a shower. She will sometimes sit herself down at my empty corner of the lunch table in the cafeteria so she herself will not have to sit alone. Her constant chatter about who knows what makes it hard to concentrate on my poetry.
Yes, poetry. Go ahead and call me a fag, I am used to the names by now. I carry my notebook around and use any spare minutes I have in between tests, or when the computer freezes and the teacher has to spend the next few minutes trying to figure out what is wrong, to write. To me, writing is freedom from the cruel world around me. I can say whatever I want with no limitations, and am not judged harshly by my peers. It is relief from the long hours I have to spend here in this hell teachers’ prefer to call school. I will not deny it, it is my obsession.
However, today not even Nancy Ford will talk to me, for last night my sister, Michelle, had mysteriously disappeared.
She probably figured that if she wanted to talk to me, she would have to stop talking about herself for once and try to give me some sympathy. A task too hard for her, she did not invite herself to sit with me at lunch today.
Next week, Michelle would have turned eighteen. She had almost lived to be an adult. She would have been a successful adult, too. A straight-A honors student and excellent musician, there would have been so much opportunity in the life which she has no chance to experience. On top of being a perfect student, she was also my perfect sister. She was the only one who was allowed to read my poetry, and she never had judged me for it, in fact, she always told me to keep my head high and someday I would be a great writer.
When she did not come home from school last night, I did not think much of it.
She was very busy with after school activities that this was not anything out of the ordinary. When dinner was served and Michelle’s chair was empty, Mom was muttering about how she could have at least called and Dad was choosing his words to scold her with as soon as she walked in the door. When the dishes were put away, I returned to my room to write poetry as if it were any other day, not worried at all. However, Mom and Dad began to get slightly worried when they called her cell phone and got her voicemail. They got even more worried when they called her some of her close friends, and they told them that Michelle did not show up to school at all. When they called her other peers, they got similar responses.
The police were called, but I still did not come downstairs. I scribbled away in my notebook a little anxious. I did not think that Michelle was harmed, I held firmly to the false belief that things like that just did not happen outside of newspaper stories, especially not to my sister. She was okay, and when she would come home we would all laugh about it while eating the cheesecake she had prepared the night before.
Michelle did not come home last night.
Despite this news, my parents still forced me to go to school. They, too, held on to the belief that things like this could not and would not happen to their beloved Michelle.