Chapter Two ~
I watched the rain trickle down. It slowly came down the foggy window, making it clearer. I watched what was outside the window, it was a yellow bus on wheels. That bus had brought happiness wherever it went. But sadness it left. I remember going on that yellow bus with a happy expression of relief, happy that the day would end, and I would go watch the fields and cows while hearing the kids chatter in the back of the yellow bus.
But those times are so lost in my memory I’m not sure they even existed. Maybe all that was just a simple fever dream, that’s it and all it ever will be. I was dissatisfied when I heard I would never be on that yellow bus again, it made my blood turn cold. I wasn’t excited about my new life. I never was.
Every day, as the bus would come across the street and stop, picking up the two boys that lived in front of me, I prayed to go back to that school. I prayed to the Lord every day. I started going to church.
I would go with my grandfather, I spent all my time with him, happy as could be. He taught me math, and he always did it with a smile. I remember I hated him, and never appreciated him. One time I remember I was on a stool, and I refused to come off it. He tugged me but I wouldn’t budge. Then the stool fell and is thin skin cut. I didn’t feel bad about it, I didn’t care. I guess I never really did.
Then he died from falling. I watched him die. His lifeless body on the cold ground as I watched. He was rushed to the hospital and I remember praying that he would die. Because I didn’t care. I can love but not care? What is wrong with me? One minute later he died, and I still didn’t care. I didn’t even shed a tear. I regretted it a year later. Not his death that saddened me, but mine. I feel like I lost myself and everything I had.
I started disliking my grandmother. Why? Because I felt like she loved my sister more than me. I had all the proof. I told my mother, and she started disliking my grandmother because of me. Because I needed the attention. For years, I would see her wrinkly face struggle to do stuff, and I was annoyed by her. I took her for my own gain as well. I took her money, and I didn’t even realize how much she loved me until I grew older. When she was sick, I realized how horrible I was. And a day before her death I just wanted her to die so I could leave. I hate myself now because I am unable to care.
I remember I hurt myself because I wanted myself to feel the pain I inflicted on others. But when blood spilled from me, I felt utter happiness. I smiled while doing it, and I don’t regret it.
I remember sitting in the fields of my farm, with the tall grass itching.
I remember sitting there knowing that my life is nothing but a dream. A dream that I am unable to wake up from. I accept that. But I am more isolated and lonelier than ever.
Pain is a pretty thing.
It sees us for who we are, and we see it for who it isn’t.
Thanks for reading. just some messy thoughts.