The Only Exception

Being an inhabitant of Windchester allows me to know about anything and everything, anyone and everyone here. I know that the woman down the street is having an affair. I know that the freshman at school is pregnant with her best friend's boyfriend's baby. I know who is dating who, who likes who, what is what, and when is when. I know it all and I hate it.

I wish I could look at someone and think, who are they? What are they like? What’s happening in their life? I don’t want to know every little damn thing that happens in this place I prefer to call hell, because it makes me sick.

Shouldn’t people have privacy? Some things need to be kept a secret, but this town doesn’t seem to understand that. Everyone here believes it is perfectly okay to know about everyone else’s business and that they have the right to speak up about it.

It’s disgusting, pathetic, and down right wrong. I fucking hate this place and trust me, when I turn 18 and graduate I will go far, far away and never return because…this town is my worst nightmare. It is a pathetic excuse of a town and deserves to be destroyed.

I know that is harsh to say, but I don’t give a damn.

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, I continue on the memorized path home. The wind blows hard around me, causing trees to sway, my hair to blow into my face, and my skin to chill. My feet walk down old, cracked cement, that I literally know by heart. A car or two pass me by, and is it sad for me to say that I knew exactly who they were by just looking at those vehicles?

I feel it is.

Shivering, I reach up to press the headphones close to my ear. The Ready Set blasts through the speakers, spilling sweet, sweet music into my head. I hum and sing along to the wonderful voice of Jordan Witzigreuter. This shit is addicting, I tell you. It’s like a fucking drug.

Sadly the music is taken away from me the moment I reach the house. White paint is chipping off the side, shutters hang loosely about ready to fall, the screen door is broken, wooden door is scratched, and the porch is now nonexistent and is a simple block of cement.

I open the door, the hinges squeaking from old age and rust. In the living room mother lies, dead gray eyes trained on the TV like always. Father sits in his chair, a cigarette hanging from his chapped lips, and alcohol resting on the table next to him.

His dark black eyes, that I sadly share, glare at me. The stone cold stare is something that I am use to. Love is definitely not something my parents have given me…ever. Not even when I was younger. They fed me, taught me what was needed, but never once had I heard them say, I love you.

They’ve never cared about me. I bet I could come home high, half dead, or completely wasted and all they’d say is, take yourself upstairs. Not that I care. Because I never received their love I’ve learned not to want it either.

So, kicking off my shoes and placing my favorite jacket in the closet I go upstairs to my small room with nothing but a bed and TV inside. My closet is stuffed with my clothes, piled up in no specific order. I have pictures of friends and bands on the wall, but other than that my room is plain.

My bed rests next to the window, blankets a mess and not even close to matching. My TV is medium size and sits on the floor straight across from the bed. I have a few miscellaneous things like my school things, CD’s, and other things scattered across my floor.

Taking a seat on my bed, I pick up the remote and flick through the channels. Once again, nothing good is on so I slip on some vans and go to get my jacket. I go outside into the slightly chilly November air and look across the street to the only uninhabited house on our street.

The large house has been empty before my parents were born. It’s two stories high and rather large. It’s made of brick and if I didn’t hate this place so much, I’d buy it when I get older, but that will not happen. There’s a beautiful porch wrapped around the front. There are large windows and a tile roof.

A maple tree sits comfortably in the front yard. During the fall it loses its leaves, making the lawn a beautiful mix of fall colors. When I was younger I always found myself making them into a pile and jumping into them. Yes, it is an amazing house, but…

It’s haunted.

Yep, at least that’s the rumor. Apparently the previous owners were one of the very few people in this town that were murdered. They were killed in their own home and of course, the kids believed they still roam the halls and if anyone were to go in there, they’d be kill.

I scoff at the mere idea. I’ve went into that house thousands of times. When mother got too drunk, when dad got too loud, when they went to take their anger out on me I’d go to that house and sleep there. Never once has there been a ‘ghost’ or anything of that matter.

But whatever. People can believe what they want. I won’t tell them that I’ve been in there, that I’ve stayed there, that I’ve slept there and spent hours upon hours there. The more they avoid that house the better. I can keep it as my own, my little safe place to go to when things at the house go wrong.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I bow my head and take a walk. The sound of cracking twigs and crushing leaves along with the birds chirping are the only things I hear as I walk through the trail in the woods.

All around me trees tower high above my head and block out most of the sun. I admit, it’s nice living so close to the wilderness. This is a great place to be, to go to, to think or just to be some place silent. But sometimes I really do hate it, because it isn’t exciting at all. It’s the same as everyday, nothing changes, and that’s all I want.

A change. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently, because this town hasn’t changed in years and I have a feeling it is going to stay that way. Everything will be here for the next 20 years and not be different at all, I bet.

There will still be the skating rink, the lake, the smelly old man down the street, the diner, the gas station, the candy store, the school, and the park. It will probably still be here, standing tall, maybe re-painted or re-named but here all the same.

This place is like stuck in time and here I am, stuck with it.

Fuck me.