Status: idek with this
The Jesus Kid
she was broken
Bad things only happen to bad people.
At least that was what Alesana had been taught to believe in. Naughty girls got raped, disobedient girls got beaten. The bad was deserved and the good was earned.
What a load of bullshit.
Alesana didn't die that night, no. But she sure as hell wished she had. She told me, later, that she did though. Die, that is. That it felt like she had, because afterwards, later, it wasn't surviving the ordeal that mattered. It was surviving the rest of your life knowing what you did.
Anyway, I couldn't tell you what really happened, not even if I tried. Alesana forgot and Mary Sullivan, well she died, didn't she? So the dead couldn't speak and Alesana's mind got so fucked up she had to spend a few extra weeks in that stupid Christian rehab camp her father sent her too. Her parents were obviously too stupid to see that Alesana couldn't be fixed like that, not anymore. She needed something that you couldn't find in Jesus, or Buddha or even fucking Mahatma Ghandi if that counts for anything.
So for three weeks after she got back, Alesana wouldn't come back to school. And boy, was the school waiting! You don't become student body President and not have your rape and assault plastered all over everyone's facebook page, no. Not in Ferndale High at least.
She came back though, a little different to when she had last walked through those doors. She seemed broken, like a bird who's wings had been ripped off. The light went out of her eyes and where there would be a smile, there was only coldness. She stopped going to church, though I reckon that had stopped way before, and almost stopped coming back to school.
I met her, and I mean really met her, on that Thursday. She was sitting out, behind the cafeteria during lunch, dressed in black jeans and a long sleeved turtleneck even though it was Summer. Seeing her there made me stop, you know. 'cause the back of the cafeteria's where only the losers, like me, hang out. But there she was, her colourless eyes hidden behind a pair of dark dark sunglasses and a pair of ear phones in her ears. There was a joint in my hand, I'd saved so fucking much for that so I wasn't looking to share or anything, and because she had a rep for being prissy about pot heads, I leaned back against the cafe wall trying not to be seen.
She turned though, slowly, as if she'd heard me coming or something even though I knew she hadn't. When she saw me, her shoulders kind of tensed up a little, then rose defiantly. I met her gaze head on. If she was going to tell me to eff off, I'd show her. I mean, people like her didn't belong back here. They belonged back inside, where there was light, and healthy cafeteria lunch; amongst the creatures of habit and hormones, of pretty white sweaters and red jock jackets.
This place was mine.
I opened my mouth to tell her to piss off when something about the way she was looking stopped me. Broken, you know. That was what I saw that day. She was broken.
We stared at each other for about five minutes. Trying to see what the other would do. Understanding seemed to dawn on her face, understanding that this was my spot, my niche, and she had no say here. After a few moments more, her eyes went down to the joint in my hand and in that mock bravado voice, she asked - "Can I have some?"
My eyebrows rose, and I flushed, but of course I said no, because screw that I wasn't going to be the first person to offer Alesana Jones a joint. She stood then, brushed the grass stains off of her jean legs and walked back into her world of noise and smiles and laughter. Somehow, even now, even after, I wish that maybe I'd said yes.
At least that was what Alesana had been taught to believe in. Naughty girls got raped, disobedient girls got beaten. The bad was deserved and the good was earned.
What a load of bullshit.
Alesana didn't die that night, no. But she sure as hell wished she had. She told me, later, that she did though. Die, that is. That it felt like she had, because afterwards, later, it wasn't surviving the ordeal that mattered. It was surviving the rest of your life knowing what you did.
Anyway, I couldn't tell you what really happened, not even if I tried. Alesana forgot and Mary Sullivan, well she died, didn't she? So the dead couldn't speak and Alesana's mind got so fucked up she had to spend a few extra weeks in that stupid Christian rehab camp her father sent her too. Her parents were obviously too stupid to see that Alesana couldn't be fixed like that, not anymore. She needed something that you couldn't find in Jesus, or Buddha or even fucking Mahatma Ghandi if that counts for anything.
So for three weeks after she got back, Alesana wouldn't come back to school. And boy, was the school waiting! You don't become student body President and not have your rape and assault plastered all over everyone's facebook page, no. Not in Ferndale High at least.
She came back though, a little different to when she had last walked through those doors. She seemed broken, like a bird who's wings had been ripped off. The light went out of her eyes and where there would be a smile, there was only coldness. She stopped going to church, though I reckon that had stopped way before, and almost stopped coming back to school.
I met her, and I mean really met her, on that Thursday. She was sitting out, behind the cafeteria during lunch, dressed in black jeans and a long sleeved turtleneck even though it was Summer. Seeing her there made me stop, you know. 'cause the back of the cafeteria's where only the losers, like me, hang out. But there she was, her colourless eyes hidden behind a pair of dark dark sunglasses and a pair of ear phones in her ears. There was a joint in my hand, I'd saved so fucking much for that so I wasn't looking to share or anything, and because she had a rep for being prissy about pot heads, I leaned back against the cafe wall trying not to be seen.
She turned though, slowly, as if she'd heard me coming or something even though I knew she hadn't. When she saw me, her shoulders kind of tensed up a little, then rose defiantly. I met her gaze head on. If she was going to tell me to eff off, I'd show her. I mean, people like her didn't belong back here. They belonged back inside, where there was light, and healthy cafeteria lunch; amongst the creatures of habit and hormones, of pretty white sweaters and red jock jackets.
This place was mine.
I opened my mouth to tell her to piss off when something about the way she was looking stopped me. Broken, you know. That was what I saw that day. She was broken.
We stared at each other for about five minutes. Trying to see what the other would do. Understanding seemed to dawn on her face, understanding that this was my spot, my niche, and she had no say here. After a few moments more, her eyes went down to the joint in my hand and in that mock bravado voice, she asked - "Can I have some?"
My eyebrows rose, and I flushed, but of course I said no, because screw that I wasn't going to be the first person to offer Alesana Jones a joint. She stood then, brushed the grass stains off of her jean legs and walked back into her world of noise and smiles and laughter. Somehow, even now, even after, I wish that maybe I'd said yes.