Status: Finished
Imperfect
Writing
I didn’t really like writing in a journal. It felt a lot like school, except we didn’t have to use desks or pencils. Some kids held crayons, and I saw one girl with nail polish, carefully pulling the brush in thick strokes.
I settled on my stomach feeling the rough fabric of the carpet chafe my elbows. The notebook was one of the cheap, thin kind you can get at Staples for a few books. Mine was blue.
Everyone else but me seemed to be scribbling happily away. Aven was sprawled across a chair, his tattered black notebook filled with his messy scrawl. Walt was near me.
His notebook was pink, and he’d drawn cartoon characters all over the front. His handwriting was small, but as I watched he filled up a whole page. Bryan’s notebook was a beaten up yellow.
His handwriting was neat, but I could tell he pressed too hard, because several times there was a ‘rip’ and he would mutter a curse.
Crystal sat across from Jamie at a desk, both of them leaned over so far their heads were almost touching. They both had a neat white notebook, their names written in precise black ink on the cover.
I already knew they would have the same handwriting, decorative and tiny. They were writing a lot too. I looked down at my own notebook and felt stupid. All I’d written in it was my name.
So I crept over to Aven and sat with my back against his chair, my head touching his thigh. “Aven,” I hissed. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to talk, but other people were.
“Yeah?” he whispered back. “I can’t think of anything to write.” He shrugged and leaned a little closer, breath hot in my ear. “Whatever comes to mind. Walt writes what his day is like. Bryan writes what he wants for dinner. Crystal writes angry letter.”
He grinned. “And I bet Jamie writes about Crystal.” “What do you write about?” I asked. “Mostly just song lyrics. Wanna see?” “Yes.” He handed me his notebook, and I turned to one of the neater pages.
There were lyrics everywhere, scratched across whole pages, in the borders, between other lyrics. I read a few.
No fists in protest
No youth revolution
Life is just a lie
Death, dissolution
Or
I would’ve given my life for you
My entire fucking life for you
But YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOURSELF!
Or
All I saw was your smile
Your laugh
Your eyes
All you saw was your perfect reflection
Now everything is tears
Blood
Screams
Everything is destruction
I handed it back to him carefully, not wanting to tear anything. “Oh, Aven, those are amazing!” “Thanks. I write them for my band.” “What’s it called?” It didn’t surprise me at all that Aven was in a band.
In fact, I had kind of expected it. I wondered how good he was. Aven laughed a little, looking guilty. “We don’t exactly have a name yet. It kind of changes.”
My back was starting to hurt so I shifted around a bit. Aven must have noticed, cause he moved aside on the chair. “Come sit up here. There’s room.” I did, feeling relieved.
One side of my body was pressed against Aven. I could feel his skinny elbows and hips digging into me, the rise and fall of his chest. He radiated heat, which felt nice. The hospital tended to be chilly.
I was close enough to see the holes where his piercings had been, the scars on his neck and arms, whether intentional or not I didn’t know. Probably both, but I didn’t dare ask.
Aven smelled like paper and sawdust, which was a surprisingly pleasant scent. I wondered what he was thinking. “What do you do in your band?” I asked. “I sing, play a little guitar.”
I could see his face from the corner of my eyes, long lashes casting shadows on his too pronounced cheekbones.
“My band mates are cool. They didn’t kick me out when I started to go a little bit crazy, and they’re not replacing me. They’re just on pause until I get out. And I promised them I won’t be a fuck up again.”
His face got intense and he held the notebook tighter, paper crunching in his hands. I got the feeling that to Aven, promises are sacred. “What are their names?”
Aven’s face relaxed into a smile. “Mark is our guitarist. He’s been my best friend since I was seven. He was gonna be as messed up as me, but he met this chick named Kathleen and got married. Sometimes we think she’s an angel.”
He laughed a bit. “Amos is the bassist. He’s gay, and sometimes we call him ‘our token member to look politically correct’ but we’re joking. He’s a cool guy. Sage is our drummer. He’s kinda quiet, but insane on the drums. He’s Amos’ cousin. The kid can hold his alcohol, too. I remember we played beer pong for....”
Aven stopped himself, clearing his throat. “Uh, sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about that.” “It’s fine.” “Okay, now tell me something. Write it down, it won’t be so hard.”
I did, my tidy script filling a few lines. I do have very good handwriting, and an organized personality. Besides the breakdown....
My mom likes French names. My middle name is Esme. She named my siblings Jean-Paul Remy and Annalise Helene. My siblings are a bit older than me. I hate them.
Aven read the words quickly and looked up at me, murmuring, “Why do you hate them?” I realized it was easier to write secrets, so it wouldn’t feel like they were going to tumble from my lips.
They didn’t tell me what my mom was planning. They say they love me, but they couldn’t save me. They’re cowards.
Aven read my words again before he put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me. “I don’t have siblings, but that fucking sucks.” “Yeah.” The bell rang and we got off the couch. The side of me that had been touching him felt cold.
I settled on my stomach feeling the rough fabric of the carpet chafe my elbows. The notebook was one of the cheap, thin kind you can get at Staples for a few books. Mine was blue.
Everyone else but me seemed to be scribbling happily away. Aven was sprawled across a chair, his tattered black notebook filled with his messy scrawl. Walt was near me.
His notebook was pink, and he’d drawn cartoon characters all over the front. His handwriting was small, but as I watched he filled up a whole page. Bryan’s notebook was a beaten up yellow.
His handwriting was neat, but I could tell he pressed too hard, because several times there was a ‘rip’ and he would mutter a curse.
Crystal sat across from Jamie at a desk, both of them leaned over so far their heads were almost touching. They both had a neat white notebook, their names written in precise black ink on the cover.
I already knew they would have the same handwriting, decorative and tiny. They were writing a lot too. I looked down at my own notebook and felt stupid. All I’d written in it was my name.
So I crept over to Aven and sat with my back against his chair, my head touching his thigh. “Aven,” I hissed. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to talk, but other people were.
“Yeah?” he whispered back. “I can’t think of anything to write.” He shrugged and leaned a little closer, breath hot in my ear. “Whatever comes to mind. Walt writes what his day is like. Bryan writes what he wants for dinner. Crystal writes angry letter.”
He grinned. “And I bet Jamie writes about Crystal.” “What do you write about?” I asked. “Mostly just song lyrics. Wanna see?” “Yes.” He handed me his notebook, and I turned to one of the neater pages.
There were lyrics everywhere, scratched across whole pages, in the borders, between other lyrics. I read a few.
No fists in protest
No youth revolution
Life is just a lie
Death, dissolution
Or
I would’ve given my life for you
My entire fucking life for you
But YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOURSELF!
Or
All I saw was your smile
Your laugh
Your eyes
All you saw was your perfect reflection
Now everything is tears
Blood
Screams
Everything is destruction
I handed it back to him carefully, not wanting to tear anything. “Oh, Aven, those are amazing!” “Thanks. I write them for my band.” “What’s it called?” It didn’t surprise me at all that Aven was in a band.
In fact, I had kind of expected it. I wondered how good he was. Aven laughed a little, looking guilty. “We don’t exactly have a name yet. It kind of changes.”
My back was starting to hurt so I shifted around a bit. Aven must have noticed, cause he moved aside on the chair. “Come sit up here. There’s room.” I did, feeling relieved.
One side of my body was pressed against Aven. I could feel his skinny elbows and hips digging into me, the rise and fall of his chest. He radiated heat, which felt nice. The hospital tended to be chilly.
I was close enough to see the holes where his piercings had been, the scars on his neck and arms, whether intentional or not I didn’t know. Probably both, but I didn’t dare ask.
Aven smelled like paper and sawdust, which was a surprisingly pleasant scent. I wondered what he was thinking. “What do you do in your band?” I asked. “I sing, play a little guitar.”
I could see his face from the corner of my eyes, long lashes casting shadows on his too pronounced cheekbones.
“My band mates are cool. They didn’t kick me out when I started to go a little bit crazy, and they’re not replacing me. They’re just on pause until I get out. And I promised them I won’t be a fuck up again.”
His face got intense and he held the notebook tighter, paper crunching in his hands. I got the feeling that to Aven, promises are sacred. “What are their names?”
Aven’s face relaxed into a smile. “Mark is our guitarist. He’s been my best friend since I was seven. He was gonna be as messed up as me, but he met this chick named Kathleen and got married. Sometimes we think she’s an angel.”
He laughed a bit. “Amos is the bassist. He’s gay, and sometimes we call him ‘our token member to look politically correct’ but we’re joking. He’s a cool guy. Sage is our drummer. He’s kinda quiet, but insane on the drums. He’s Amos’ cousin. The kid can hold his alcohol, too. I remember we played beer pong for....”
Aven stopped himself, clearing his throat. “Uh, sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about that.” “It’s fine.” “Okay, now tell me something. Write it down, it won’t be so hard.”
I did, my tidy script filling a few lines. I do have very good handwriting, and an organized personality. Besides the breakdown....
My mom likes French names. My middle name is Esme. She named my siblings Jean-Paul Remy and Annalise Helene. My siblings are a bit older than me. I hate them.
Aven read the words quickly and looked up at me, murmuring, “Why do you hate them?” I realized it was easier to write secrets, so it wouldn’t feel like they were going to tumble from my lips.
They didn’t tell me what my mom was planning. They say they love me, but they couldn’t save me. They’re cowards.
Aven read my words again before he put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me. “I don’t have siblings, but that fucking sucks.” “Yeah.” The bell rang and we got off the couch. The side of me that had been touching him felt cold.