Did that make me a terrible person? To feel so forgotten.

It's hardly as though it was on purpose. Nor without reason, for that matter. Granted, I could try a little harder. Could call upon my friends more often. Be a bit more social, spontaneous. But no, no. No, I knew I couldn't do that. Nothing good ever came from that.

I still felt guilty from the last time, didn't I?

But, what was worse? Guilty, or forgotten? Besides, half of that wasn't even my fault! Why should I still be feeling guilty? But then, I knew I still would. I was still, after all, me. And, if it wasn't guilt, it was disappointment. And I knew I would rather take guilt any day.

If only I was not left alone so often, though. Caged, as though an animal. Left within the folds of my own mind, ostracized from humanity. Because every so often, just here and there, I could feel it creeping up. That sinister hysteria of madness. And I can't fight it off forever. Not all on my own.

Groaning at the throbbing sensation forming at my temples and the unwelcome wetness within my eyelids, I lifted my forehead from the edge of my bed. With my eyes still closed, I rubbed at the pain and attempted to scoot across the floor back to my desk, pushing off with my feet continuously.

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow," I moaned when my shoulder came into contact with something that was most definitely not my desk. A book was jutting out from my shelves, pressing a sharp edged corner into my exposed shoulder. Glaring at my copy of Twisted, I shoved the spine, slamming the book back into place and stumbling to my feet.

"Stupid book shelf," I grumbled, half-heartedly.

Grappling for the edge of my desk with my vision fading in and out in resistance to the headache I'd unwittingly created, I fumbled my way to the smooth oak. The ledge of the desk I could, at least, use grasp to maintain my balance.

Pieces of construction paper littered across the center still, my notebooks pushed to the corners or dropped to the ground for space. My thin black sharpie was buried somewhere amidst the mess I'd created and there was an aged plastic case of colored pencils settled on the other end. Most of the pencils were, of course, no longer in it.

I really needed to work on picking things up.

Scuttling further down the desk for the relief of sitting in a chair, I found something harshly pressing into my lower back as opposed to the chair cushion. Digging around behind me I found the demonic communications device I'd been saddled with.

It wasn't as if I even needed a phone, really. Who ever wanted to get a hold of me? Family always calls for my parents, businesses are simply a waste of time, and toll free calls? Really, having a house phone was annoying enough when it was constantly ringing. When it comes down to who I truly contact, I live with them, and it's not as though I have many reasons to leave the house while their gone.

Then again, I was supposed to be 'called upon' today, wasn't I? Or does that simply lose any joy when I'm smart enough to know of it? When I make certain not to go anywhere, not to venture to my swing-set, and try to be sure to actually keep my phone on me? Because when I have to be reachable, I think I go maddest of all.

Resigning myself to flip open the pointless contraption, I bit the inside of my bottom lip in sad realization. It was nearing one in the afternoon, and I was notified to no knew texts or missed calls.

I'd lost my attraction to rereading Wings hours ago and I was more than sick of the on-line world. It seemed that all I ever did over the summer was load various sites and take in the same words day after day. I would never be able to sit through a movie with my head a miserable mess of my own creation. I needed something new. Not necessarily a book, though that would be nice.

No, that's not entirely true. I needed humanity.

Just one person, a friend, talking to me with a voice instead of the clacking of a keyboard and dark-toned letters. I needed to go somewhere. Act like actual human beings for a minute, an hour. Something. I needed to get out of this bloody house and somewhere I didn't feel caged. Somewhere I could be a proper idiot. But that, clearly, could never happen. Would never happen.

Squinting down at my stupid, silent phone with menace, I decided to do something of my own today. Tossing the wretched thing across the room to land on my bed, I scanned my desk once more, grabbing for the keys trapped beneath my handy ruler.

The certificate I was working on, a gift for a friend, was scarcely started. A border was sketched out adorned with paint brushes and strokes and some pacman ghosts, but nothing further. I hadn't gone over the pencil with sharpie, nor had I begun coloring. But it wasn't as if she was getting it today, right? At least, not anymore.

It wasn't as if she even needed it, really. It was stupid.

Before racing downstairs, I snatched a hair-tie from atop my bookshelf as well, figuring the brown locks would get on my nerves at some point. I tread to the kitchen long enough to find a pen and scribble out a barely legible note on an old envelope lying on the counter in case anyone should come home looking for me. Except, I didn't exactly know where I was going myself, so it wasn't really informative. In the end I only ended up jotting that I went biking and I didn't know when I'd be back.

My hand twitching from something so barely intricate as handwriting, I dropped the pen like a hot coal and bolted to the garage, grabbing shoes by the laces along the way. I had to sit down beside my bike to put on and tie my shoes, I would have had to do that eventually any how. Still, my fingers were jerking and dropping the laces from the effort of staying put any longer.

Finally satisfied the knots would hold, I wheeled the bike outside and somehow managed to lock the door behind me. From that point on, I was just glad to be going anywhere, my keys buttoned away in my pocket. I didn't care not to know where.

It didn't take long, really, to end up on the familiar path to the park. I'd wanted to go somewhere, right? And within the range of five miles it was really only that, a store, or the hospital. That was alright, though. The park could be fun. It'd been a while since I'd last been there.

It wasn't all that hard to get there, either. It was, what? Two miles away? Give or take a quarter of a mile. And, going by my route at least, you only crossed an intersection twice. Then again, my street was rather long, wasn't it? And I did hate the intersection with a light. Honestly, who knows the right of way when someones on a bike? Although, I do remain a pedestrian, technically.

After that it was simply cutting through the church's parking lot and the pathway that one could hardly call a road to the park.

The actual park of course was littered with little kids and groups from summer camp. I'd long since given up on being able to come here and actually play in that park. That would make too much sense, wouldn't it? Even the lake seemed abundant with people fishing today, though.

But no, I no longer ventured about there.

Instead I abandoned my bike in the shadows and took a sharp turn into the woods before I'd properly reached the park. The dismal path winding in here, I'd long since realized, seemed to have fallen out of favor. That was alright with me though. Treading down along the dirt, I needn't worry about running into anyone.

All the same, I could never simply stick to the path. It ended, and shortly too. So where was the fun in staying aboard it? Especially when one could easily venture deeper? It wasn't as if I could get horribly lost. I knew the other end opened up to an apartment complex -- only some stretch of yards away, too.

And so, shoving tree limps up and to the side, I began to delve deeper.

I honestly had no idea what people held against the woods. Unless they took Hawthorne seriously and feared the devil lurking? It was more fun, though. You actually had to do something to move a step forward, there was more than just dirt beneath your feet. Besides, you couldn't run into a stream when you stayed tied to the path.

It was hardly as though someone was going to build a bridge for a simple stream that no one cares to cross. Excepting me, of course. But that's half the fun of it, isn't it? Trying to find a way across.

Of course I should have anticipated the mud surrounding it. That would make sense, right? That water, when mixed with earth, would create a mud slide? And a rather slippery one at that. I was too preoccupied at the moment, though, making certain a branch didn't swing back and whack me in the gut. Which it didn't -- it swiped at my neck with the brilliant timing of my slipping into the stream and releasing it.

I was winded and choking, gasping for breath as I landed sideways into the water. I couldn't say if it was the ruddy water obscuring my vision or if my eyes had begun tearing up again.

Brilliant. This shirt was white, too, wasn't it? It always managed to be whenever I go into a wet mess.

Putting that out of my mind though, I focused on trudging back to the side I'd slide down while still gasping and coughing. My throat was something I didn't even want to address. Unfortunately, climbing up a mud slide is much harder than falling down it. My hands groped with nothing to grasp and then slid miserably back to my sides. Only when my vision had cleared slightly and could see a patch of brush did I manage to hoist myself out again, clinging to and nearly uprooting the poor bush.

My mood was sabotaged, destroyed. My quest fumbled into a puddle of mud that left its residue squelching in my shoes and splattered about my clothes.

I wanted to go home.

Sidling back to beaten path, I hung my head in shame as I trailed back to my bike. My clothes stuck uncomfortably to my skin and my hair was plastered to the back of my neck in a terrible mess. Running a hand through the sopping locks reminded me of the hair-tie I'd grabbed earlier and, after digging that out from my pocket, I fastened my hair up triumphantly.

The rest -- the bike, the intersections, the keys, the garage -- was simply a blur. A passing moment that I never intended to bring up again. I placed my bike back from where I'd taken it. Kicking off my shoes and spraying away the mud with the hose, I left them outside to dry in the sun.

Almost immediately after having moved to the main house I stripped down to my underwear, tossing my clothes into the washer with some soap in the hopes of salvaging them. Next I headed to the kitchen to toss the unneeded note I'd scribbled before retreating back to my room to fetch pajamas for after my shower.

I couldn't resist just one glance, though -- a peek at the blasted contraption to see if I'd been called upon. Missed. The screen flashed only one missed text, over thirty minutes ago, and I tossed it down again squeezing my eyes closed.

Forget it. I needed a shower anyhow.

Short. Really very short, I am aware. Although, in my defence, it wasn't meant to be a story anyhow. It just sort of. . . became one? Right, sure, let's go with that.