No, you don't know what it's like. You have no idea. Don't even pretend to. You'll never know until the day that it happens, when they're suddenly gone. They just disappear, like that. At first, it doesnt even hit you. It hasn't caught up with you. And then, some small, insignificant thing will just make you realize they're gone. And you know what? It hurts. It hurts like hell. All you want to do is just rip your heart out to ease the pain. Distract yourself from it. But it'll never be gone. It'll always be there, digging into your heart; into your soul. The only thing you can do, is just live. Live, Anna. That's what they would've wanted.
During my last years in the Hell many mistakenly call The Four Best Years Of Their Life, I realized that this Drama adults had informed me of as I waltzed out of the prison of my Junior High, still wet behind the ears and ecstatically anxious for something that did not deserve such recognition, was in fact far greater than I had anticipated. You see, as I heaved the doors of my High School open, took a whiff of the newly painted coat of led-based goop clinging to the walls, I had vowed to myself that this year, and the three following, I would skim by under the radar of the educational system, pass P.E. my first year, suck-up to all of the teachers as much as I possibly could, and avoid any and all Drama that headed my way. Now, this masterfully crafted plan of mine failed once I actually stepped foot onto the gum-encrusted tile floor of Redwood High when Drama had skidded around the corner, books tumbling out of its failing arms, and slammed right into me, throwing me onto my back.
This little Drama Harlot's name was Carrie Witherspoon; born of Native American, Irish, and French decent, she was a goddess among women. And aside from her addiction of gossip and ever-lasting need of a compliment, ever since our graceful encounter, we became best of friends.
But just like that god forsaken law of science - with every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. With every person comes a best friend and a foe.
My foe: Serena Harrings, a stereotypical queen-bitch "whore", as well as my freshmen locker partner. I could go on for ages telling you about her and her flaws and the history behind our relationship, but it would really be so much easier to just toss you a thesaurus and tell you to look under the word "slut". I'm sure she'll be under there somewhere, huddling in between the other words that seem to do her justice. But considering the fact that these are my memoirs of High School, inside and out, it would be a sin not to include her charming origins. But it will all come in due time.
Now, it appears as if my story, chock full of drama, would be your conventional teenage tale of parties, booze, friendships, losses there-of, boys, hormones, drugs, car wrecks, and all of that other teenage High School riff raff, and I honestly and fully wish that this story was. But it seemed the three sisters of Fate had more complicated plans in mind.
I wish I could tell you that my Junior year I went to some party, got terribly drunk, and was arrested for a DUI, my parents forever being ashamed of my delinquency.
I wish I could tell you I had been caught cheating with my best friend's boyfriend, resulting in the end of our friendship and me falling in life-long depression.
Hell, I even wish I could tell you I had sex with some man I had never met before, conceiving a small fetus in my womb and getting an abortion so I wouldn't shame my family. This of course would then lead me getting into drugs and alcohol, prostitution, and eventually self destructing by leaping off of California's infamous Golden Gate Bridge. Why the Golden Gate? Because if one is to end their life, one will do it in style.
But that was all child's play for Fate. They had better things planned - they were going to have fun ruining this little teen's life.
Like all stories inevitably begin - whether it is mentioned or not - this story begins with two people. A man. And a woman. And these two people were doing what any man and woman would do when primal instincts arose. In the words of the great Will Smith, they were gettin' jiggy wit it.
But I suppose this story begins even further back than that. By about forty-two minutes and thirty-six seconds. In a bedroom.
Like most teens at my age, I had never accomplished the ability of being what some will call "morning people." I could barely be considered an afternoon person. I lived off of coffee, that each day would affectively stain my teeth a deeper shade of yellow. But this particular morning was no ordinary morning. It was in fact a particular morning in a particular month that began with the affectionately arranged letters F-E-B. The day was in fact a particular pair of numbers that when divided by two, subtracted by seven and multiplied by four equaled zero. And it was the worst holiday in existence.
Valentine's Day. I cringe at the name. I have a collection of horrible memories hidden deep in my conscience of this wondrous day, but I must say the worst was at the fragile age of six, when Tony Parkman approached me with a mess of glue, construction paper, and sequents, and stated quite confidently:
"I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I can make the BED ROCK."
Had I understood at the time, I am quite positive I would not have giggled and kissed his cheek. Of course, being so naive, the reference to The Flintstones is what captured me. But with my new wisdom I have now realized how horribly wrong and sick that pick-up line is.
But aside from the sexual innuendo, the monotonous card exchange, and the wreaths of never ending paper chains, there had always been some lingering animosity of the holiday. Had I been psychic and was aware of the wonderful day that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
[Results]
Short, I know. But please tell me if you like it or if there are any needed improvements.
I'll try my best to actually begin the series on Valentine's Day. That gives me about a month, and
since it's been snowing non-stop here, I might actually have some time to work on it.
