By Dr. Pepper 14
Summary: One-shot Loneliness can be deadly.Hold me close and hope yourposion doesn't mix with my pain.
You know that girl in the corner? The one that seems to just blend into the shadows?
Even she doesn't know who I am.
No one really does.
I've gone through my whole life as this 'invisible girl'. And no, it's not like some great super power. Actually, it's more like a disease than anything else, festering in my blood. No one notices my pain. No one notices the hurt in my eyes.
No one notices me at all.
I suppose there are some upsides to this, as all things have their good and bad qualities. For one, I never get called on in class. Never have. And I stopped bothering to raise my hand years ago. But, as I'm sure you'll soon realize, nothing good can stand alone. There's more. I can't even begin to tell you how many teachers have misplaced a paper or test of mine, and occasionally even a report card.
"Are you even in this class?"
"Did you just transfer into this room or something?"
It gets old, it really does. But, honestly, it doesn't faze me in the least. My responses are as habitual as brushing my teeth at night. I don't even realize I'm doing it. The monotone words flow out of my mouth of their own accord, rasped out in a husky whisper, my voice weak from lack of use-
"Yes ma'am, would you like to see my schedule?"
"No sir, I didn't."
People sometimes (but very rarely) see me in the halls; eyes curious as if it was the first time they have laid eyes on me. I hear their muffled whispers-
"Is that a new student?"
"Where'd she come from?"
I don't bother to respond. What would I say to them? That, no, I'm not a new student and have been going to school with you since kindergarten? That this wasn't the first time you've wondered aloud if I were a new student and you must be a fucking retard to not realize this and make the connection?
No, I wouldn't say any of that. It might freak people out to hear voices when there's no one to see. People don't take lightly to that sort of stuff. Not that I should care if they have to go see a psychiatrist for the next few years of their lives.
Who's gonna pay for my therapy bills, hmm? Oh… that's right… invisible people don't make appointments with shrinks. Oprah is my only savior- she's free and you can watch the show even if you're a nobody.
My parents are happily oblivious of my state of undone. In fact, they are happily oblivious of everything I do.
I won't lie to you and pretend that I don't care what people think about me. I do. The problem, is that no one knows I exist and therefore cannot think anything about me either way. Do you know how it feels to be totally disregarded and ignored? I doubt that you do to the full extent of my inconspicuousness.
I yearn for companionship. The only friends I've ever had are my stuffed bear, Todd, and an imaginary friend I once had in first grade. I got rid of him, though. He ignored me, too, and forgot my name all the time. What kind of friend does that?
I just need someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with. Someone to cry with. Someone. Anyone.
It's so lonely here.
True, I'm surrounded by people in an auditorium; the lights shine bright down upon our black caps. But it's so lonely here, and the darkness is all that I see. Graduation day is a day to be happy. To cry and hug people goodbye.
But you have to say hello first before you can say goodbye.
You read your pamphlet merrily along with your fellow peers, reading the long list of names and smiling at the memories each name brings. And suddenly that smile is daunted. For a brief second, you falter. You've never seen my name before.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Must be a typo."
I'm just glad they remembered to put my name in.
College is no different. I go to my classes. Remind the professors that I do, indeed, belong in the class, and that, yes, of course, I actually go to this school. The nights are long. But my school work takes longer. Not like I have anything better to do in my free time than work. What would I do instead? Go to a party? Go out with friends? A date even? Ha! That's ridiculous.
I go to the same restaurant every Tuesday. I sit at the same table every time. I order the same dish, as if a slice of pizza with banana peppers on it and a cherry coke is my new obsession. The waiter, whose name is Rob, has sparkling blue eyes and a winning smile. I eat there every Tuesday. Does he ever remember my name? No. Does he ever try to guess my order right off the bat (not that it's hard to guess) and offer me one of his gorgeous smiles? No. Never.
Does this bother me? No. I'm used to being forgotten by this point in my life. This is nothing new.
This existence is monotonous. And every second I take a shaky breath, life continues to remind me of reality.
It's really sad, though.
As I'm sitting here. In this dusty old dorm room. Shared with a roommate who doesn't know my name and whose only words spoken to me are "Stop clogging up the goddamned sink". My blood collects around me. Saturating my clothes and the carpet that I know one more stain won't make a difference on. But this stain is more pronounced. This bold crimson color is hard to miss.
But that's not the sad part.
The sad thing is, weeks from now, after my dead corpse has been cleared away, my roommate will look at the floor and say "Who spilled red paint all over the carpet?"
I wrote this a year ago...
I don't know why I'm posting this. Wait, yes I do. I'm posting this because I fucking can and no one can stop me. So there.And I love you, each and every single one of you.
I had a bad day. I cried in public again. I'm sick. If I could get a few hugs in my reviews, that would be marvelous.