The ground around me was littered in crumbled up calls of paper. My lap was covered in eraser shavings.
“I’m sorry,” I wrote with a shaky hand, “to anyone who still cared enough to read all of this.” That last sentence was the hardest one I’ve ever had to write.
I read over my two paragraphs. My handwriting was almost illegible. My writing never was perfect, but at least it could be read. My handwriting here was just as shaky as my hand was when writing. It didn’t seem like there was any spaces between some of the words. The writing was almost too small. I didn’t want to rewrite any of it, though. I already made enough mistakes while writing it; the evidence was all around me. I didn’t need to waste anymore time.
With no enthusiasm, I jump off the swing and pick up all of my attempts. Instead of just throwing them away, I stuff them into my bag, just incase anyone would love to see every other mistake I’ve made before leaving.
I started walking away from the park. I still didn’t want to return home, so I just continued walking in any random direction, letting my subconscious to take me where it wanted.
After walking for somewhere around fifteen minutes, I ended up in a small neighborhood. It wasn’t mine, I knew that, but the area did look familiar. It took me a bit longer to figure out that one of my friends from middle school lived in that area. If she still did, I have no clue. What I did know was that I never wanted to see her again.
If they were all truly my friends, then they would have never started resenting me when I decided to change my style. All I wanted was to just embrace who I actually was, to not be one of those ‘normal’ girls that looked like everyone else. And my ‘friends’ thought I should have gone back to the person I was before. The person I was not.
Then it seemed that not many people talked to me anymore. And I just became the outcast. The one nobody liked or cared about. If anyone really knew me, it was probably because they made fun of me; or, they only hear snippets of what people have said about me. I ended up not caring about them like they did me.
Was it a mistake to want to actually be myself? I still didn’t know. Doing so has caused me so much pain. But if I didn’t, I wouldn’t know how much of a jerk those ‘friends’ were. I still cannot figure out what would have been better.
I continued walking, still in no known direction. I had no clue what time it was. I was wearing no watch and I purposely left my phone at home. Time was completely irrelevant to me at this point.
In the distance, I saw someone walking in the same direction I was. He stopped for a moment and swung his fist against the chain fence next to him. I only stopped walking because I didn’t want to get any closer than I already was to that person; I only wanted to see what he was doing.
He held on to the fence for a little longer, then let go and began to walk away. So did I.
I don’t know what compelled me to continue following him, I just did. Maybe my subconscious knew who he was, or maybe I did want to talk to someone. Either way, he never noticed me, and I never saw his face. One thing could have tipped me off at that point which I never thought about until the next day. He was wearing very recognizable headphones.
When I passed by the fence he gripped, I noticed some drops of something on the ground. I knelt down to get a better glimpse. The liquid seemed a bit red, but I couldn’t completely tell in the dim light. Cautiously, I dipped my finger in one of the spots and brought it to my nose. It smelt a bit like iron or something metallic. Then I realized that it was blood.
I stood up and looked into the distance. The person’s form was getting smaller, so I sped up. When I got a bit closer, I noticed something drip from his hand every few seconds. He must have cut his hand on the fence.
He flicked his hand a couple of times. More small spots of blood stained the ground. I still followed. He crossed the street and went into a gas station. I hid near the dumpster, just so he wouldn’t see me, but I would still be able to see him. I smirked a little. This was nice, I kind of enjoyed feeling like a stalker.
Ten or so minutes later, he left. His hand was bandaged. So he did get cut. He went off in a different direction from whence he came. I was sure I knew where he was heading, but I still followed his exact route. He started jogging, I guess to get there faster, so I followed suit.
He finally stopped at Eisenhower Park, exactly where I knew he was heading. He walked over to the playground and the rocket. Almost as swiftly as a child would, he climbed to one of its platforms and just sat. I walked away. I didn’t completely leave; instead, I just sat next to a tree and watched. I made sure that from his perspective, he wouldn’t be able to see me.
I have no idea how much longer I sat there, watching him. He got up at one point. He walked to the outside of the bars and pressed his face against them.
“No!” he screamed at one point. I had no clue what happened. Maybe it was from what he was listening to. He only took his headphones off when going inside the gas station and he put them on almost immediately after leaving. He must have not been able to stop listening.
I heard another sound. Was it . . . crying? I couldn’t be sure. But by that point, I got up and finally left to head home.
That was when I began crying myself. It will all be over tomorrow, I told myself, over and over, but I still didn’t feel that way. It was either, I wouldn’t be able to do it, or people would still make fun of me. I was still too weak. Why wouldn’t someone just understand what I was going through and just help me get past it?
I got home that night with my face stained in tears.