She sat in front of her computer, her head in her arms, tears running down her cheeks. The words in the screen glared at her, mocking her pain. She read over and over the phrases someone she loved so much had written.
You are not worthy.
Her heart sank. She really wasn't, was she? What had she done to be worthy? As her mind raced to find an answer to the question another tear fell down her face. Nothing really, that was the answer. She had done nothing to be truly worthy –she had only done what would make her loved ones believe she was worthy. Best grades in school, good at sports, talent for arts, exceeded in whatever she tried for, worked only her hardest every time, put all her will into doing all that was necessary. For whom? Not for herself, that was for sure.
You don't work hard enough.
She closed her hands into fists. Did she not? She probably didn't, or else they would recognize it. But, oh, how she wished they would. She yearned from the bottom of her heart that one day, they would look at her and see. And then they would say, "We are proud of what you have become" –she really hoped they would tell her that, because she was definitely not proud at all.
Still crying, she stood up and dragged herself to the bathroom. Her face reflected on the mirror and she cringed. A pale-faced, dark-haired girl with nothing particularly stunning looked back at her. Another tear fell. She had never been the prettiest girl –although she knew she should have been– but she tried all she could. She learned how to put make-up well to hide her paleness and all those little shameful imperfections, she went to the gym all she could to be as lean as they liked her, she practiced having the perfect smile so that all who looked at her would not notice her plainness, but would see a shinning girl instead.
"Yet, it was never enough." Her voice cracked before she could end her sentence.
She turned her gaze away from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom. Through her blurry eyes, she searched for that box –her magical box. She saw it under her biology books, buried within all that was making her miserable. She took it and opened it. The little wooden box had not much inside but for a necklace, a picture, and a letter –all her special things. She took the picture and looked at it, as she always did when she felt like this.
In the picture, a man and a woman hugged a girl warmly and the little six-year-old returned the embrace. Her smile was as pretty as any could be.
A tear fell on the picture, just like many before had. That had been the day; the day she decided she had to be perfect. They had gone to one of her cousin's birthday party. An aunt had taken that picture and the parents had told the six-year-old she could go play. And so she did. Along with her cousins, she climbed up a little tree that was just starting to grow. She had always been good at climbing. She hung, balanced, stood, and did everything she could to entertain her friends; she loved to entertain. But then the adults called them to sing happy birthday. Radiantly, she ran toward them, smiling all the way. They, those she loved so much, looked at her, and it was that look she would never forget.
They scanned her pretty white dress, which wasn't so white anymore, with an expression that at the moment she didn't understand. But it hurt all the same. Her head fell down and she walked slowly towards them. She heard the voice of her mom calling out to her.
"Look at you. What have you been doing, hanging from trees like a monkey?"
Her chin touched her chest; she whished she could become a little ball and disappear.
"Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't anything a good girl like you should be doing," her dad had said.
A good girl. Like her. She was a good girl. Tears stopped coming down from her eyes.
"I am a good girl. I have always been, I would always be." But for some reason that didn't make her feel any better.
She went to her computer again and quickly typed before she lost the courage to do so.
I did all I could, she typed.
She sighed; she knew this was useless and would not help her in any way.
It wasn't enough was the reply.
Her heart shrank, hurting her. She could not bring herself to say anymore –it was not proper.
I'm sorry, she typed.
But, really, all she wanted to ask was, Is it ever enough?
N/A: Here I am with a little one-shot There is not much to say about this, it was depressing to write and it's depressing to read, but I still like it.
Please, tell me what you think.
Reviews ARE important!
Giving Cookies and Ice-Cream,