Myspace
Prologue
She sat on the bench, the wind billowing wildly through her purple hair, the rain spattering on her pale face. Her eyes travelled across the water, rising and falling with each individual wave.
This was her place. She’d come here around four this afternoon and she ‘d been sitting there for two hours, with nothing to distract her except her own thoughts. Her mind.
It was a bench, at the top of a small, yet steep hill, overlooking the open sea. There was a rock out to sea with a grassy top that many had attempted to climb. It was quiet. It was nature. It was home.
It was getting dark, as it was late September, and the nights were starting to get longer. She shivered as a cold gust of wind rushed through her body. There was a hazy light from the sky, that was progressively getting darker. It was a nice light though, not like the threatening, unnatural light of her bedroom. It was real. It was honest.
And that’s when he saw her. Sitting, curled up protectively, on the bench that he passed on his way home from school. He knew of her, she was in his home ec class, but he had never spoken to her, other that saying, “Do you mind doing the dishes?” or, “Can you pass the flour?”. Things like that. Meaningless requests not even enough to be small talk.
But she fascinated him. He knew she had a boyfriend, so she wasn’t a crush, but he hung on her every word when she spoke, even if she wasn‘t speaking to him. He watched her every movement like a hawk. Her movements were graceful and precise. She didn’t have a lot of friends, but that didn’t seem to bother her. She was an individual, an outcast. Just like him.
He summoned up the courage to talk to her. At least say “Hi.” to her. But as he got closer, he saw anger, frustration, and confusion in her eyes. She was vulnerable. It was obvious she wanted to be alone. But he couldn’t stop himself from strolling over there like her white knight and introducing himself.
She looked up at him coolly, and asked if she knew him, in a scornful tone. She was in no mood for onlookers. She had seen him around the school, but she didn’t know him. She hadn’t spoken to him. He was a faceless nobody. And she didn’t feel like sharing her life story with a faceless nobody.
He explained carefully that they were in the same home ec class, then reminded her of his name. She acknowledged it with a simple nod. He asked her if she was ok. She answered with a yes. But it was a lie. It was unconvincing. So he asked her what was wrong.
She told him that she’d had a fall out with her mum, which was true. She had. But it wasn’t all of what was happening. It seemed to satisfy him enough, though, as he told her confidently that he hated his parents, that the drove him crazy. She’d heard that sort of crap so many times. It wasn’t the way to connect with her.
She told him that she didn’t hate her mum, that she loved her, which was again true. Her dad ran out on her when she was a baby, and her mum was all she had. But that wasn’t why she loved her, simply because she was all she had left. She loved her for her.
But he wasn’t listening. He knew what outcasts were like. They were desolate creatures, who hated the mainstream, the government, fashion, and most of all, parents. So he carried on about how he hated when they came into his room without knocking, when they came and tried to talk to him when he wanted to be left alone. And she agreed that it annoyed her too when people tried to talk to you when you wanted to be left alone.
She was growing tired of him. He just gibbered on, thinking that they were connecting because they both hated their parents. But she was saying she agreed because she wanted him to shut up. Little did she know that it was spurring him on.
He was now telling her how annoying he found it when they invaded your personal space, and how irritating they were when they tried to figure out exactly what was wrong. He made no connection to the fact he was annoying her, and irritating her, by invading her space. He thought they were friends. He thought they understood each other.
That was when she snapped. She started yelling at him, calling him a stupid hypocrite and showing him exactly what he was doing wrong with cruel impersonations. He looked startled and hurt, like a deer in headlights, mumbling something about how he thought they were just talking.
She then told him to piss of. Told him she wanted him gone, and wasn’t that obvious. He picked up his bag in a rage, no longer fascinated by this beautiful creature. He had now seen her true colours, and hoped never to see them again.
He spat that he’d see her in fourth period on Thursdays, before calling her a bitch and storming off home.
She watched him go. Off home, down the muddy hill. He didn’t even slip. She then turned her head back to the ocean, a feeling of satisfaction and sadness over the fact she was back here again. All alone.
This was her place. She’d come here around four this afternoon and she ‘d been sitting there for two hours, with nothing to distract her except her own thoughts. Her mind.
It was a bench, at the top of a small, yet steep hill, overlooking the open sea. There was a rock out to sea with a grassy top that many had attempted to climb. It was quiet. It was nature. It was home.
It was getting dark, as it was late September, and the nights were starting to get longer. She shivered as a cold gust of wind rushed through her body. There was a hazy light from the sky, that was progressively getting darker. It was a nice light though, not like the threatening, unnatural light of her bedroom. It was real. It was honest.
And that’s when he saw her. Sitting, curled up protectively, on the bench that he passed on his way home from school. He knew of her, she was in his home ec class, but he had never spoken to her, other that saying, “Do you mind doing the dishes?” or, “Can you pass the flour?”. Things like that. Meaningless requests not even enough to be small talk.
But she fascinated him. He knew she had a boyfriend, so she wasn’t a crush, but he hung on her every word when she spoke, even if she wasn‘t speaking to him. He watched her every movement like a hawk. Her movements were graceful and precise. She didn’t have a lot of friends, but that didn’t seem to bother her. She was an individual, an outcast. Just like him.
He summoned up the courage to talk to her. At least say “Hi.” to her. But as he got closer, he saw anger, frustration, and confusion in her eyes. She was vulnerable. It was obvious she wanted to be alone. But he couldn’t stop himself from strolling over there like her white knight and introducing himself.
She looked up at him coolly, and asked if she knew him, in a scornful tone. She was in no mood for onlookers. She had seen him around the school, but she didn’t know him. She hadn’t spoken to him. He was a faceless nobody. And she didn’t feel like sharing her life story with a faceless nobody.
He explained carefully that they were in the same home ec class, then reminded her of his name. She acknowledged it with a simple nod. He asked her if she was ok. She answered with a yes. But it was a lie. It was unconvincing. So he asked her what was wrong.
She told him that she’d had a fall out with her mum, which was true. She had. But it wasn’t all of what was happening. It seemed to satisfy him enough, though, as he told her confidently that he hated his parents, that the drove him crazy. She’d heard that sort of crap so many times. It wasn’t the way to connect with her.
She told him that she didn’t hate her mum, that she loved her, which was again true. Her dad ran out on her when she was a baby, and her mum was all she had. But that wasn’t why she loved her, simply because she was all she had left. She loved her for her.
But he wasn’t listening. He knew what outcasts were like. They were desolate creatures, who hated the mainstream, the government, fashion, and most of all, parents. So he carried on about how he hated when they came into his room without knocking, when they came and tried to talk to him when he wanted to be left alone. And she agreed that it annoyed her too when people tried to talk to you when you wanted to be left alone.
She was growing tired of him. He just gibbered on, thinking that they were connecting because they both hated their parents. But she was saying she agreed because she wanted him to shut up. Little did she know that it was spurring him on.
He was now telling her how annoying he found it when they invaded your personal space, and how irritating they were when they tried to figure out exactly what was wrong. He made no connection to the fact he was annoying her, and irritating her, by invading her space. He thought they were friends. He thought they understood each other.
That was when she snapped. She started yelling at him, calling him a stupid hypocrite and showing him exactly what he was doing wrong with cruel impersonations. He looked startled and hurt, like a deer in headlights, mumbling something about how he thought they were just talking.
She then told him to piss of. Told him she wanted him gone, and wasn’t that obvious. He picked up his bag in a rage, no longer fascinated by this beautiful creature. He had now seen her true colours, and hoped never to see them again.
He spat that he’d see her in fourth period on Thursdays, before calling her a bitch and storming off home.
She watched him go. Off home, down the muddy hill. He didn’t even slip. She then turned her head back to the ocean, a feeling of satisfaction and sadness over the fact she was back here again. All alone.