Sid and the Last Five Years

Comparing me to them was like comparing Christmas ornaments to pita bread; there was no relation. My hair wasn't at all as silky as the other girls he took interest in, and my eyes weren't nearly as big and bright. I started examining and depicting the little parts of my exterior and I just couldn't stand it anymore, I hated it. I loathed the moment seeing myself clearly in the mirror for the first time; if I had horns Sid would be right, I would be a monster. My chin wasn't justified and lagged onto my neck a little more than it should; my nose was far too large for my face; my smile was crooked, although it rarely ever made a cameo, when it did it was unsightly; my eyebrows weren't plucked; my lips weren't full; my ears were odd; my hair wasn't the right color; my stomach wasn't small enough; my arms were too fat; my hands were to short; my nails weren't nails at all; my legs were pale; my feet were big; my heart wasn't really a heart at all.

“I'm not into this whole 'pretty' thing,” I mumbled to myself, whatever confidence I had had eroded into the deep abyss of my mind.

'It's simply because you suck at it. You shouldn't be into it.'

“It's like a slug trying to be a butterfly, it's just not there,” I sighed, and threw my messy hair back into a bun, where I could be rid of it for at least a few moments. For once, Sid and I were agreeing, his pessimistic attitude started to match perfectly with my depressed, dark disposition.

'He only ever said a few words to you that day, you know.'

“More words then than he's ever said to me.”

*

The money, it was wasted on useless things like ordering an entire large pizza just for Adam and me, but it wasn't filling; renting a movie that lasted two hours, but it wasn't Ferris Bueller; buying make-up from the drug store, but it all washed off eventually. Nothing was permanent, and the feeling of abandonment was stronger than ever before. When I woke up, I didn't hear the car cooling down or warming up, my mom's light little footsteps walk around any corner of the house, the kettle of the teapot ring or the steam from a shower, not even a one-night lover leaving, I heard the worst thing of all: silence.

Sometimes I heard Adam crying or screaming, but beyond that, the silence was louder. It overcame every little noise that wasn't Mom and was Adam, and just coated the air with it's thick, rich essence of loneliness.

*

A girl in the hall filled with many of others was conversing with her friend about how she told herself she was pretty in the mirror every morning, how it made her feel more complete. I saw the look of the polite, supporting nods and the creased lips of the friends, but it was all fake. Truth was the girl had created an awkward moment for everyone around her, the girls who didn't feel comfortable in their own skin and uncomfortable to hear someone actually doing something about it. I could have told the girl just as easily as anyone else, that all she had to do was cake on some makeup and line her eyes with a black pencil (that occasionally struck the eyeball if you weren't experience [I wasn't.])

I was frustrated, but I was trucking along. It was that story of a man who had lost a limb, but still had some will to survive, and kept crawling until he reached a hospital, a police station, or any sign of civilization. I was just on that hunt to find out what I was supposed to do.

'Look at her, yeah her. She's skinny.'

I nodded in agreement with the man who wasn't really there. I probably looked like one of those confident, outgoing people who danced when there was no music, nodding my head like there was a tune.

'And look at her. Her legs are so long.'

This time I didn't nod, but let out a breath that had been compressed for far too long. Survival was hard, but somehow, it was worth it; I guess.

'And lastly, look at her.'

He didn't have to tell my why I had to look at her, because the foggy window had been wiped and cleaned. The last obstacle of passing period was seeing yet another pretty girl, one who would soon be heartbroken, with her textbooks in hand, hair bobby-pinned back with Eric. I began to feel enraged, like I could pin someone down and hit them. Hit them without the slightest bit of remorse.

*

“When Tom runs off, he's upset and feels worthless in the eyes of others, as if no one wants him, and is knee-deep in self pity. He witnessed the murder, Polly's so mean and to top it off, the girl of his dreams doesn't even want him-”

“I think he's just obsessed,” a girl chimed in, interrupting Ms. Andreq with whatever point she was trying to make. “He wouldn't have ever ran off if she hadn't nubbed him like that. Stuck her nose up and just-” I could see the girl's hand grip tighter to her pencil; I felt mine do the same. “It was obsession, he's too head over heels for her, and that was-”

“That could be it,” Ms. Andreq said, not disregarding her idea, but knowing it was wrong, like most teachers do when a student is very off about something, but appreciated the attempt to engage in something school-related. “But remember, all these things added up, and the murder-”

“It was obsession.”

Obsession; such a pretty word.