They always say that an attitude is something that you choose. It's not the actions that affect
you, but your reactions. Personally, I've always thought that emotions are out of our control. Anger, hate, disgust,
agony, heartbreak. Love, happiness, joy, adoration, courage. Positive or negative, I believe that the best we can do is
try to pretend we're okay and hope our minds catch on eventually.
Unfortunately, it's not a common occurrence.
Personally, I am not okay. I am completely - maybe permanently - fucked up. I wake up several times an hour in the
night, stifling my screams only to stumble back into the caress of my nightmares. There are days when I hardly want to
touch food; loathe even the sight of it, as my stomach turns sour and all I seek is to turn away. Scars are strewn
haphazardly across my body, serving as lingering witnesses, long after the trial has ended. Proclaiming that they were
born on the nights when I was at my weakest. When I collapsed. Shattered. Changed. Changed, into the mess of broken
glass and sands of time, the irreversible mistake.
Like so many other people, I don a mask daily. A mask that is slowly splintering, chips crumbling away, as if the
stronger part of me has finally decided to catch up with the rest of me. My mask of happiness, pretend laughter, and
recklessness. With each passing day, it becomes less visible, slowly caving to reveal the true me. My flaws are
beginning to claw their way to the surface, and it terrifies me.
By far, the most painful aspect of it all is the fact that nobody knows. I suffer in silence. I stare at the ground
as I wander the hallways. Hallways that could be empty for all the good it's doing me; hallways that are crammed full of
people who don't reach out to help, even if it just means saying hello. Part of me wonders if they're really that
oblivious, or if they're all just pretending so that they don't have to face the fact that so many others are exactly
like me. Broken. Alone in a crowded room.
After he died, people started to treat me differently. They're always awkward, or casting me eyes brimming with
pity like an overflowing toilet. I absolutely loathe
it. And the more that I hate it, it seems the more often it
happens. Wherever I go, I'm chased by white-hot stares fixated on the back of my neck. It's begun to suffocate me.
The only exceptions of these ever-present gazes are my friends, though they're few these days. With them, I can
pretend to be normal. While I can't drop my protective barriers all the way, I can at least lower them. In all honesty,
I think that's the only thing keeping me from trying to escape. Trying to get to him again. They temporarily silence -
or at least muffle - the heart-wrenching sobs of agony that throb within my chest day-to-day, minute-to-minute. They're
holding me together, if only barely.
Trust me, this introduction is almost over. But I haven't quite gotten to actually introducing myself, and as we
all know, things have to begin before they end... My name is Jacelyn. My friends call me Jack, despite my being a girl.
My enemies' nickname for me isn't quite as flattering, but lately, they've pretty much left me alone because it would
ruin their reputations if they made fun of the girl whose boyfriend slit his wrists and bled out. Personality-wise, I
think you probably know the same amount about me as I do.
And, of course, this is my story. Welcome to it.
CHAPTER TWO: Click here!