Prozac Nation: My Own Words, chapter 3
Today is going to be different. I can feel it in my bones. Or maybe it's just the cold.
I'm walking towards school. The day's all blurred from my point of view. There's barely any sun poking out from between the clouds in the sky. The sidewalk's all damp and a little clammy-looking. And I'm just going to school because they're making me.
Gross, there's a dead cat on the street. Must've been run over by a car.
Now I feel as if I've been run over by a sixteen wheeler. As the school comes into my view (Gregory High, what a stupid name), I suddenly feel tired. But I keep going. I wonder why I changed so much in these past years. The weight of it all was crowding over my shoulders.
I go into the school and sit in front of my locker. Open the notebook, new page. Pencil, eraser, streak, stain. I draw. Images that have circled my dreams since I was little.
Ever since I was a kid I loved to draw as much as I loved music. I used to draw happy stuff, such as flowers and sunsets and butterflies. But as I grew older, I grew darker. My sunsets turned to bloodstained moons and the butterflies found themselves surrounded by thorns and barbed wire. My dreams and hopes disappeared in a world of stitched hearts and dark woods.
I look up and I see Principal Rodman walking down the hall. Beside him walk Mr. Derrick and Mrs. Johansen. History and English. My favorite teachers. Gag.
Mrs. Johansen sees me and rapidly turns towards me. She wants me to make up for the last two absences. No chance. I quickly get up, shove my stuff back in my locker and walk away with my backpack slung casually over my shoulder. I hear her calling. I break into a run.
My first class is biology. I park my ass in front of the door and take my picture out. I crinkled the edges by accident. Damn. I start drawing black roses to cover them up.
"You know your aunt doesn't like those," Mitch says, walking up the corridor with a messenger bag on his shoulder.
I scoff. "Who cares?"
He glances at the charcoal and graphite drawing. "Pretty good. But I don't like the roses. Looks deadly."
"That's the idea," I say.
Mitch glances at me in disbelief. I grin.
Mitch abruptly changes the subject. "Maybe told me that she got ticks for the Airwalk concert next Friday. She invited us. You wanna come?"
I ponder this thought. Maybe was this Goth chick who had permanent dibs on the corner outside the gym to smoke between classes. She was good at getting tickets, and nobody knew where she got them. You name it, she finds it. Airwalk was our favorite local band, and the only local band worth seeing.
"Sure," I said, not completely sure.
Mitch grinned, and his eyes twinkled.
Twinkle, I hate that word.
The bell rings. I walk into the classroom and sit in the back. I lay my forehead on the cold desk. Mitch nudges my shoulder and tells me to stay awake for at least half of the class. Yeah, easy for him, he actually likes biology. Freaky.
Teacher: "Who can tell me what we were talking about in the last class?"
Class: Groan.
And for some strange reason, I am now sitting once more in your office, waiting for you to talk or say something. You don't know me at all, so you don't know what to talk about. And I don't care enough to even look at you. I just sit in my usual corner of the couch counting the stitches on my sneakers.
"One of these days you have to talk, Kim," you say in a concerned tone.
One of these days? I've been saying that for months and it hasn't worked. My throat closes up on me every time I try. And you aren't really helping. You sit there thinking what could possibly be troubling me and wondering if the guy at the entrance desk would ask you on a date any time this week. You don't care; you're just doing one shit of a job. Your mind is as sick as mine.
"Kim," you say, a slight pinch of annoyance in your voice.
I just hide my eyes with my hair and ignore you as always.
It's three in the morning and I'm still awake. My aunt pokes her head at the door and tells me to go to bed, you have school tomorrow. Big whoop. School.
I go back to my book. Some kind of novel written in the psycho language of English. Or maybe the novel is written in some other language. Either way, I don't understand a fuck. And after I'm done, I can't remember anything and I wonder if the picture in the front has something to do with the book.
I'm walking towards school. The day's all blurred from my point of view. There's barely any sun poking out from between the clouds in the sky. The sidewalk's all damp and a little clammy-looking. And I'm just going to school because they're making me.
Gross, there's a dead cat on the street. Must've been run over by a car.
Now I feel as if I've been run over by a sixteen wheeler. As the school comes into my view (Gregory High, what a stupid name), I suddenly feel tired. But I keep going. I wonder why I changed so much in these past years. The weight of it all was crowding over my shoulders.
I go into the school and sit in front of my locker. Open the notebook, new page. Pencil, eraser, streak, stain. I draw. Images that have circled my dreams since I was little.
Ever since I was a kid I loved to draw as much as I loved music. I used to draw happy stuff, such as flowers and sunsets and butterflies. But as I grew older, I grew darker. My sunsets turned to bloodstained moons and the butterflies found themselves surrounded by thorns and barbed wire. My dreams and hopes disappeared in a world of stitched hearts and dark woods.
I look up and I see Principal Rodman walking down the hall. Beside him walk Mr. Derrick and Mrs. Johansen. History and English. My favorite teachers. Gag.
Mrs. Johansen sees me and rapidly turns towards me. She wants me to make up for the last two absences. No chance. I quickly get up, shove my stuff back in my locker and walk away with my backpack slung casually over my shoulder. I hear her calling. I break into a run.
My first class is biology. I park my ass in front of the door and take my picture out. I crinkled the edges by accident. Damn. I start drawing black roses to cover them up.
"You know your aunt doesn't like those," Mitch says, walking up the corridor with a messenger bag on his shoulder.
I scoff. "Who cares?"
He glances at the charcoal and graphite drawing. "Pretty good. But I don't like the roses. Looks deadly."
"That's the idea," I say.
Mitch glances at me in disbelief. I grin.
Mitch abruptly changes the subject. "Maybe told me that she got ticks for the Airwalk concert next Friday. She invited us. You wanna come?"
I ponder this thought. Maybe was this Goth chick who had permanent dibs on the corner outside the gym to smoke between classes. She was good at getting tickets, and nobody knew where she got them. You name it, she finds it. Airwalk was our favorite local band, and the only local band worth seeing.
"Sure," I said, not completely sure.
Mitch grinned, and his eyes twinkled.
Twinkle, I hate that word.
The bell rings. I walk into the classroom and sit in the back. I lay my forehead on the cold desk. Mitch nudges my shoulder and tells me to stay awake for at least half of the class. Yeah, easy for him, he actually likes biology. Freaky.
Teacher: "Who can tell me what we were talking about in the last class?"
Class: Groan.
And for some strange reason, I am now sitting once more in your office, waiting for you to talk or say something. You don't know me at all, so you don't know what to talk about. And I don't care enough to even look at you. I just sit in my usual corner of the couch counting the stitches on my sneakers.
"One of these days you have to talk, Kim," you say in a concerned tone.
One of these days? I've been saying that for months and it hasn't worked. My throat closes up on me every time I try. And you aren't really helping. You sit there thinking what could possibly be troubling me and wondering if the guy at the entrance desk would ask you on a date any time this week. You don't care; you're just doing one shit of a job. Your mind is as sick as mine.
"Kim," you say, a slight pinch of annoyance in your voice.
I just hide my eyes with my hair and ignore you as always.
It's three in the morning and I'm still awake. My aunt pokes her head at the door and tells me to go to bed, you have school tomorrow. Big whoop. School.
I go back to my book. Some kind of novel written in the psycho language of English. Or maybe the novel is written in some other language. Either way, I don't understand a fuck. And after I'm done, I can't remember anything and I wonder if the picture in the front has something to do with the book.
