Shine

I never knew something so good could happen to me.

To ME, of all people.

I'm one of those people who got the short end of the stick throughout my entire life. Its always been that way. Ever since I started school.

I had always known I was different from the preppy girls, who wore vintage Stella McCartney, and had Chanel bags. (The REAL ones) That style was never really me.

My favorite color us black, because black is the color of night. Night is when I feel safest.

Anyway, I like to wear black. I think it reflects my personality.
People at school, however, didn't agree with me. All the Jocks, Preps, Cool Kids, whatever you want to call them, stereotyped me. Just because I wear black, dark makeup, and have black hair, makes me 'emo,' 'goth,' 'cutter,' 'scene,' etc. But that isn’t me at all. Its just what they see me as. “Kenesy Gill, that weirdo emo girl.”

That’s all I am. No one bothers to get to know me, or even talk to me. The only times they talk to me is when they’re shouting insults toward me.

I’ve learned not to feel. I mean, I can’t ignore it, but I try not to feel it. The pain hurts. The pain of not being accepted is terrible, even when I’ve known these kids for so long. But these people have cut me too deep. It’s cut me deeper than I can even figure out. I’ve tried to ignore it, but I know I can’t do that. These people pick on me for pure entertainment, and the fact of them knowing I’m hurting satisfies them even more.

As I rifled through my closet for a decent outfit, my stomach was doing back flips. Tomorrow is the beginning of my junior year in high school. I’m dreading it. I know I have to go.

I picked out some black leggings, a dark gray top, and took out my black Chucks. They had little doodles on the toe of each shoe.

“Kene-sy! KENESY! Get –hic—down h-here rrrright now!” My mother yelled up the stairs, her voice making its way into my makeshift bedroom.

I closed my eyes, and ran my hands through my long, black hair. This was the bad part. My mother was drunk; it seems as if she’s always drunk, now. My mom doesn’t work, that’s what my dad does. She’s supposed to be a ‘stay-at-home-mom.’ But I wouldn’t call her anything close to a mother.

I walked out of my doorway, to find my mom at the bottom of the stairs in a dingy terrycloth robe, and flannels she still had on from this morning. I checked my watch. It was 7:48 PM.

My mother grabbed the wall to steady herself. Her hair was in an unkempt ponytail, and in her left hand, she carried an almost empty chardonnay bottle.

“Yes, Mom?” I asked, trying to be as pleasant as I could.

She looked at me, and took a swig from her bottle. She polished it off. “Darn,” she muttered to herself. “Gotta get more wine. More wine! More wine!” She started laughing hysterically, as if this was the funniest thing in the world.

I walked down the stairs quickly, and wrapped my arm around my now shaking mother. “Its okay, Mom. You just need to sit down… And get some water.” I said as I walked her to a kitchen chair. She plunked down, and dropped her wine bottle to the ground. It made a crash.

I winced, feeling a shard hit my ankle. I didn’t say anything. I got my mom a glass of water.

“I… I have to s-s-s-stop,” My mother sobbed. “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME, KENESY?! WHY?!” She screamed, her words stinging with honesty. “I NEVER WANTED CHILDREN! IT WAS A MISTAKE! MISTAKE! MISTAKE!” It felt as if someone had just ripped out my belly ring.

My mother was never the ‘compassionate’ type, and I always sort of knew in the back of my head that she didn’t really care for me. But she had never actually said it out loud.

My mother’s sobs grew smaller and smaller, and finally, I heard a soft snore. I cleaned up all of the glass, cutting myself a few times. After it was all cleaned up, I carried my mother to bed.

As I tucked her in, I felt a strong yearning to be near her. I crawled in next to her. Even if she didn’t love me, I could at least pretend she did.

I slowly cried myself to sleep.