Synesthesia
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Joined: September 21, 2013
Last Seen: 1 decade
user id: 372022
Gender: F
Joined: September 21, 2013
Last Seen: 1 decade
user id: 372022
Gender: F
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Repression
Chapter 3
“So what’s your story?” he asked.
“What?” I shuffled back on the bench.
Personal questions like that made me uncomfortable. I wouldn’t open up to someone I’d known for ten years, much less this kid I’d met yesterday. My mind began to race, scrambling for what he could possibly mean by my “story.” Did the people at the church talk? Did someone at school know something? Did he talk to Marissa? Marissa always runs her mouth about personal stuff. She has no sense of limits or anything.
“I mean what’s with your attitude? You’re all snarky and sarcastic.”
“It comes with the red hair, I guess,” I said coolly, not wanting him to pry anymore.
“I’ve always liked red hair, you know,” he smirked.
I held back a smile. I tried to dismiss the comment entirely. If he was trying to flirt with me, I sure wasn’t going to let him think I was into that. I sure wasn’t going to let myself think I was into attention from some stranger, either.
“So what about you? Where are you from?” I asked, hoping to completely change the subject.
“I just moved here from Pensacola, but New York originally.”
“That explains the accent.”
“What accent?”
“Your New Yoh’k accent,” I mimicked pitifully.
A broad smile broke out across his face.
“I don’t have an accent. You have an accent. You talk like a little Southern bell.”
“I do not have a Southern accent. You’re just making stuff up,” I asserted, but I was smiling widely now too.
“Well owkay, Miss Scahlett,” he said, grinning proudly at his attempt of an exaggerated Southern plantation accent.
I giggled, then turned away and crossed my arms, feigning anger.
“Aw, don’t get mad. I like your little accent,” he coaxed.
“I know I don’t have an accent, you know,” I said arrogantly.
“Well, I know I don’t have an accent either.”
“Fine, if you wanna live in a delusional fantasy world, you can. I won’t stop you.”
“Fine by me, Miss Scarlett O’Hara.”
Chapter 3
“So what’s your story?” he asked.
“What?” I shuffled back on the bench.
Personal questions like that made me uncomfortable. I wouldn’t open up to someone I’d known for ten years, much less this kid I’d met yesterday. My mind began to race, scrambling for what he could possibly mean by my “story.” Did the people at the church talk? Did someone at school know something? Did he talk to Marissa? Marissa always runs her mouth about personal stuff. She has no sense of limits or anything.
“I mean what’s with your attitude? You’re all snarky and sarcastic.”
“It comes with the red hair, I guess,” I said coolly, not wanting him to pry anymore.
“I’ve always liked red hair, you know,” he smirked.
I held back a smile. I tried to dismiss the comment entirely. If he was trying to flirt with me, I sure wasn’t going to let him think I was into that. I sure wasn’t going to let myself think I was into attention from some stranger, either.
“So what about you? Where are you from?” I asked, hoping to completely change the subject.
“I just moved here from Pensacola, but New York originally.”
“That explains the accent.”
“What accent?”
“Your New Yoh’k accent,” I mimicked pitifully.
A broad smile broke out across his face.
“I don’t have an accent. You have an accent. You talk like a little Southern bell.”
“I do not have a Southern accent. You’re just making stuff up,” I asserted, but I was smiling widely now too.
“Well owkay, Miss Scahlett,” he said, grinning proudly at his attempt of an exaggerated Southern plantation accent.
I giggled, then turned away and crossed my arms, feigning anger.
“Aw, don’t get mad. I like your little accent,” he coaxed.
“I know I don’t have an accent, you know,” I said arrogantly.
“Well, I know I don’t have an accent either.”
“Fine, if you wanna live in a delusional fantasy world, you can. I won’t stop you.”
“Fine by me, Miss Scarlett O’Hara.”
Yes this is a very short chapter
but I love it very much.
Repression
Chapter 2
“You wh.ore!” my mother’s hand struck my cheek, “You look just like him.”
I held back tears. I had too. If I cried, she’d hit me harder. I hoped I didn’t bruise this time. The last time I bruised I had to talk to the school guidance counselor. I had to lie and say it was from softball practice.
“You love him more than me, don’t you? You think it was right what he did!” my mother was crying now and her heavy hand swung at me again.
I flinched and braced for impact. Nothing. I heard a faint ringing in the distance. It grew louder and became accompanied by rustles and zippers and shuffling feet. I came to and remembered that I had drifted off during calculus class. I ran my hands over my face to rouse myself and try to shake my dream. Dreams of my childhood were not uncommon, but I was surprised to have fallen that deeply asleep at school. I gathered my things and made my way into the hallway.
“Hey, I’ve seen you before, right?” I heard a voice to my right say.
I looked and noticed the boy from the new family at church. I hadn’t realized how tall he was. He had almost an entire foot on me, and he was lean and toned. I was actually moderately intimidated.
“Yeah. You’re wannabe rebellious church boy,” I said, hoping that would play off any shock I may have displayed when I looked at him.
“I wouldn’t say rebellious. Just frustrated,” he smiled, “Listen, do you know where this room is?” he held out his schedule and pointed to his fourth period block.
“Yeah, it’s in Building C, the next building over, second floor. It’s the first room on the right from the stairs. You can’t miss it.”
I managed to take one more glance at his schedule before he nodded and walked away. His name is Kaleb Michaelson and he’s senior like me. I smiled. We would make good friends. I wish I’d bothered to see if we had any classes together. I wish the first thing I said to him hadn’t been a stupid joke. I wish I wasn’t so damn abrasive. Oh well. At least I knew his name.
***
My fourth period consisted of sleep interrupted by brief bouts of consciousness during which I thanked my subconscious mind for not repeating the nightmare from third period. Now I made my way outside to the always-vacant benches behind Building C where I spent my lunch periods. I didn’t like eating at school. Cafeteria food made me sick and bringing a lunch from home seemed like too much of a hassle for me. I also didn’t like people interrogating me about my eating habits, so I chose to spend my lunch periods behind Building C, where hardly anyone ever came. I laid down on my bench and tucked my elbows up behind my head. I watched the clouds drift by and relaxed my body. My eyes were just fluttering closed when I heard a door open. I jolted up. It was Kaleb.
“What are you doing?” I asked in an almost condescending tone as I adjusted myself into a more acceptable sitting position.
“Lost, I guess. I don’t get this school,” he shrugged innocently.
“The cafeteria is in Building A, the one that sits on the parking lot. But I wouldn’t recommend eating there.”
“Is that why you’re out here?”
“Yeah, I’m not one for cafeteria food. Especially here.”
“All right, I’ll take your word for it,” he seated himself next to me on the bench.
I shifted uncomfortably. I wasn’t too keen on spending my lunch period with a guy I barely knew, even if I did want to get to know him. What made him think it’s okay to sit next to me anyway? He must’ve noticed my discomfort, because he slid himself to the far end of the bench.
“I’m sorry, I just--I don’t know anyone here. I don’t really wanna sit in the cafeteria by myself anyway. I’ll leave if you want,” he said, with a barely detectable hint of disappointment in his voice.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I’m Miranda,” I extended my hand.
“I’m Kaleb.” he grasped my hand and shook it with an force that almost made me wince.
Chapter 2
“You wh.ore!” my mother’s hand struck my cheek, “You look just like him.”
I held back tears. I had too. If I cried, she’d hit me harder. I hoped I didn’t bruise this time. The last time I bruised I had to talk to the school guidance counselor. I had to lie and say it was from softball practice.
“You love him more than me, don’t you? You think it was right what he did!” my mother was crying now and her heavy hand swung at me again.
I flinched and braced for impact. Nothing. I heard a faint ringing in the distance. It grew louder and became accompanied by rustles and zippers and shuffling feet. I came to and remembered that I had drifted off during calculus class. I ran my hands over my face to rouse myself and try to shake my dream. Dreams of my childhood were not uncommon, but I was surprised to have fallen that deeply asleep at school. I gathered my things and made my way into the hallway.
“Hey, I’ve seen you before, right?” I heard a voice to my right say.
I looked and noticed the boy from the new family at church. I hadn’t realized how tall he was. He had almost an entire foot on me, and he was lean and toned. I was actually moderately intimidated.
“Yeah. You’re wannabe rebellious church boy,” I said, hoping that would play off any shock I may have displayed when I looked at him.
“I wouldn’t say rebellious. Just frustrated,” he smiled, “Listen, do you know where this room is?” he held out his schedule and pointed to his fourth period block.
“Yeah, it’s in Building C, the next building over, second floor. It’s the first room on the right from the stairs. You can’t miss it.”
I managed to take one more glance at his schedule before he nodded and walked away. His name is Kaleb Michaelson and he’s senior like me. I smiled. We would make good friends. I wish I’d bothered to see if we had any classes together. I wish the first thing I said to him hadn’t been a stupid joke. I wish I wasn’t so damn abrasive. Oh well. At least I knew his name.
***
My fourth period consisted of sleep interrupted by brief bouts of consciousness during which I thanked my subconscious mind for not repeating the nightmare from third period. Now I made my way outside to the always-vacant benches behind Building C where I spent my lunch periods. I didn’t like eating at school. Cafeteria food made me sick and bringing a lunch from home seemed like too much of a hassle for me. I also didn’t like people interrogating me about my eating habits, so I chose to spend my lunch periods behind Building C, where hardly anyone ever came. I laid down on my bench and tucked my elbows up behind my head. I watched the clouds drift by and relaxed my body. My eyes were just fluttering closed when I heard a door open. I jolted up. It was Kaleb.
“What are you doing?” I asked in an almost condescending tone as I adjusted myself into a more acceptable sitting position.
“Lost, I guess. I don’t get this school,” he shrugged innocently.
“The cafeteria is in Building A, the one that sits on the parking lot. But I wouldn’t recommend eating there.”
“Is that why you’re out here?”
“Yeah, I’m not one for cafeteria food. Especially here.”
“All right, I’ll take your word for it,” he seated himself next to me on the bench.
I shifted uncomfortably. I wasn’t too keen on spending my lunch period with a guy I barely knew, even if I did want to get to know him. What made him think it’s okay to sit next to me anyway? He must’ve noticed my discomfort, because he slid himself to the far end of the bench.
“I’m sorry, I just--I don’t know anyone here. I don’t really wanna sit in the cafeteria by myself anyway. I’ll leave if you want,” he said, with a barely detectable hint of disappointment in his voice.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I’m Miranda,” I extended my hand.
“I’m Kaleb.” he grasped my hand and shook it with an force that almost made me wince.
Repression
Chapter 1
“Dammit, Miranda, you look like a damn disgrace. This is a place of worship and you look like hell,” my mom snapped as she tried to smooth out my hair and pull down the skirt of my dress for the God only knows which number time this morning.
I shrugged indignantly. I didn’t know why she dragged me to church anyway. I didn’t know why she insisted on going every Sunday herself, considering whatever she does on Saturday nights is far from holy. I guess this is her idea of penance. I guess she still has a little bit of a conscience and she feels like she owes God something. I gave up on God a long time ago, though, so I have no real reason to be here. That’s why my Sunday dresses are always a little bit too short and my heels are little bit too high: so God knows I’ve given up on trying to please Him.
We entered the building and walked to the spot my mother had claimed as her own when she became a member of the church--middle column, eighth pew back, right side--to find a family of six already seated there. I tried to distance myself from my mother by observing the large stain-glass portrait of the Nativity located in the other direction because I knew she was going to confront this poor family and ask them to move, as was customary of all people who have been members of the church for a long time.
“Uh, hello. Excuse me, folks, but this is our spot. We would really like to sit here, if you don‘t mind,” my mother said in her most sugary sweet tone. It made me sick.
“Oh, we’re sorry. Of course. We’ll find somewhere else to sit,” responded the older male, who I assumed was the father.
“Guess that means we can just leave now,” suggested the only other male, who looked to be about my age and also apparently shared my disinterest in church.
“Son…” reproached the father.
The boy obediently shuffled out of the pew with the rest of his family, but not before I could catch his eyes and give him a smirk and an empathetic nod. He quickly looked away from me, but not before I noticed the sly smile crossing his lips at my gesture.
“Hey, new people usually sit in the back of the left column,” my sister Marissa chimed in with the same obnoxiously sweet tone that my mother used.
The father of the new family and nodded and my mother, Marissa, and I took our rightful, God-given spots in the middle column, eighth pew back, right side of Seaside Baptist Church. I rolled my eyes and hoped the people around us noticed.
The preacher came forward and began to speak, and instead of committing to my usual distraction of daydreaming or counting the number of people asleep, I decided to observe the family of six my mother drove away. The father and the boy had dark skin and dark eyes and dark hair, while the mother and the older daughter were pale with wavy brown hair and lighter eyes, and the younger daughters seemed like a mix of the two. The mother and father and three daughters were sitting up straight and listening very intuitively to the message and following along carefully with the Bibles open in their laps, but the boy was leaning forward with his elbows in his lap and his chin in his hands, casually observing his surroundings. I smiled at the sight of the boy, who, like myself, was the black sheep of his family; something about him made me proud.
Chapter 1
“Dammit, Miranda, you look like a damn disgrace. This is a place of worship and you look like hell,” my mom snapped as she tried to smooth out my hair and pull down the skirt of my dress for the God only knows which number time this morning.
I shrugged indignantly. I didn’t know why she dragged me to church anyway. I didn’t know why she insisted on going every Sunday herself, considering whatever she does on Saturday nights is far from holy. I guess this is her idea of penance. I guess she still has a little bit of a conscience and she feels like she owes God something. I gave up on God a long time ago, though, so I have no real reason to be here. That’s why my Sunday dresses are always a little bit too short and my heels are little bit too high: so God knows I’ve given up on trying to please Him.
We entered the building and walked to the spot my mother had claimed as her own when she became a member of the church--middle column, eighth pew back, right side--to find a family of six already seated there. I tried to distance myself from my mother by observing the large stain-glass portrait of the Nativity located in the other direction because I knew she was going to confront this poor family and ask them to move, as was customary of all people who have been members of the church for a long time.
“Uh, hello. Excuse me, folks, but this is our spot. We would really like to sit here, if you don‘t mind,” my mother said in her most sugary sweet tone. It made me sick.
“Oh, we’re sorry. Of course. We’ll find somewhere else to sit,” responded the older male, who I assumed was the father.
“Guess that means we can just leave now,” suggested the only other male, who looked to be about my age and also apparently shared my disinterest in church.
“Son…” reproached the father.
The boy obediently shuffled out of the pew with the rest of his family, but not before I could catch his eyes and give him a smirk and an empathetic nod. He quickly looked away from me, but not before I noticed the sly smile crossing his lips at my gesture.
“Hey, new people usually sit in the back of the left column,” my sister Marissa chimed in with the same obnoxiously sweet tone that my mother used.
The father of the new family and nodded and my mother, Marissa, and I took our rightful, God-given spots in the middle column, eighth pew back, right side of Seaside Baptist Church. I rolled my eyes and hoped the people around us noticed.
The preacher came forward and began to speak, and instead of committing to my usual distraction of daydreaming or counting the number of people asleep, I decided to observe the family of six my mother drove away. The father and the boy had dark skin and dark eyes and dark hair, while the mother and the older daughter were pale with wavy brown hair and lighter eyes, and the younger daughters seemed like a mix of the two. The mother and father and three daughters were sitting up straight and listening very intuitively to the message and following along carefully with the Bibles open in their laps, but the boy was leaning forward with his elbows in his lap and his chin in his hands, casually observing his surroundings. I smiled at the sight of the boy, who, like myself, was the black sheep of his family; something about him made me proud.
(I know this
chapter is hella slow and boring but I swear it gets
better.)
Repression
Prologue
I faced my vanity and pulled the scrunchy out of my nappy red hair. I made a half-hearted attempt at combing through it, but I gave up quickly, determining again today that my mane was unmanageable. My aunts always told me that I never put enough effort into my appearance. They told me that I needed to lose weight and fix my hair and paint my face or the boys would never love me. I didn’t care though. I let my sister be the beauty queen. She’s tall and thin with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, the epitome of the most cliché, stereotypical definition of beauty imaginable. My father used to joke that she couldn’t have been his daughter; my mother must’ve had an affair. I used to laugh about it, but as time went on, I began to seriously question my sister’s genealogy. I, on the other hand, am unmistakably my father’s daughter. I’ve got the same red hair and brown eyes and stocky stature that my aunts assured me would always turn the boys’ heads in the opposite direction. Their message seemed so contradictory, though, since the one other thing they were sure to teach me was that men are evil, heartless creatures. They never had a kind word to say about my father, even long before he left my mother. They were critical of his lower-class background and of his lack of higher education, and they were always sure to let him know how undeserving of my mother he was. The derision increased exponentially after he walked out. They made sure my sister and I knew that he was the reason my mother turned to alcohol and became a drunken, gluttonous, angry shell of her former self. I didn’t believe them though. My mother was always drunk and aggressive. The only difference now is that she’s heavy enough to make an impact. And the only words of encouragement my aunts could ever give was, “You’ll never snag another man if you keep eating and drinking like that.” I guess that’s why I’m so detached. I never want to be that dependent on some man's approval.
Prologue
I faced my vanity and pulled the scrunchy out of my nappy red hair. I made a half-hearted attempt at combing through it, but I gave up quickly, determining again today that my mane was unmanageable. My aunts always told me that I never put enough effort into my appearance. They told me that I needed to lose weight and fix my hair and paint my face or the boys would never love me. I didn’t care though. I let my sister be the beauty queen. She’s tall and thin with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, the epitome of the most cliché, stereotypical definition of beauty imaginable. My father used to joke that she couldn’t have been his daughter; my mother must’ve had an affair. I used to laugh about it, but as time went on, I began to seriously question my sister’s genealogy. I, on the other hand, am unmistakably my father’s daughter. I’ve got the same red hair and brown eyes and stocky stature that my aunts assured me would always turn the boys’ heads in the opposite direction. Their message seemed so contradictory, though, since the one other thing they were sure to teach me was that men are evil, heartless creatures. They never had a kind word to say about my father, even long before he left my mother. They were critical of his lower-class background and of his lack of higher education, and they were always sure to let him know how undeserving of my mother he was. The derision increased exponentially after he walked out. They made sure my sister and I knew that he was the reason my mother turned to alcohol and became a drunken, gluttonous, angry shell of her former self. I didn’t believe them though. My mother was always drunk and aggressive. The only difference now is that she’s heavy enough to make an impact. And the only words of encouragement my aunts could ever give was, “You’ll never snag another man if you keep eating and drinking like that.” I guess that’s why I’m so detached. I never want to be that dependent on some man's approval.
Hello,
I'm gonna make this a story account because no one ever posts stories on Witty anymore and that makes me sad. Is anyone actually interested or should I abandon this now?
I'm gonna make this a story account because no one ever posts stories on Witty anymore and that makes me sad. Is anyone actually interested or should I abandon this now?