Everyone has a story. I've been in journalism for over a decade and that is the only truth there is. A story can be true or false, good or bad, bland or dramatic-but everyone has one. The story of how they got here, where they are today. My name is Eli Goldsworthy. This is my story. It's a story of pain, joy, sorrow, passion, glory and love. It's the story of many others as well-whenever they were developing their own stories they interwove with mine. It's the story of two girls that changed my life. Of a boy who couldn't fit in either gender. Of a teenage playwright who now writes the story of many through the perspective of one sinc ethey can't tell it themselves. I feel the words swelling behind my fingertips, dying to be put onto paper so that my story can continue without clawing at the past.
I wonder, will anyone read this? My last confession, my lonely opusplaying into the silent night, will it live on? Or will it perish? Will the darkness fill with light and listeners, or will my story play into the bittersweet night, with only the stars to listen and mourn?
It was late May when my world shifted on it's axis. I was fifteen, and the urge to write-to chronicle-the happenings and injustices of the world was blossoming like the sweet cherry blossoms bursting above my head. The sky was clear, there was not a cloud to marr it's perfection. I was sitting on the sun-warmed steps of Degrassi. It was in the mid-70s in Toronto, but I still wore my leather jacket. I still remember what I was writing. I had been drinking and smoking heavily for months already, and I was flirting with heavier drugs. I dreamt about killing myself, becoming a martyr for the injustices of the world that at fifteen were beginning to surface in my life. I idolized myself as a poster child, but in all reality my depression was suffocating me. My world kept getting blacker. I was writing my suicide letter. The words were sharp, their edges jagged and threatening. I fel tthat if I traced my fingers over the paper the letters would cut me. I toyed with a cigarette in my left hand as my right hand scrawled hatred. For whatever reason I looked up. A girl was walking up to the steps. I will regret and cherish this moment for hte rest of ym life. The moment I saw her face.
It wasn't a breath-taking view, at least not physically. She wasn't a supermodel. Her dark hair was thin and tied back in a loose ponytail. Her skin was pale and smooth, and I thought she looked like porcelian. She was much shorter than me, barely five feet. Her lips were the color of dark roses-I would later learn dshe wore lipstick. Her eyes met mine. They were the palest shade of brown I'd ever seen. they were deep. I could fall in a dn drown in the pain I saw there. The raw emotion that her face would never reveal was all undone when I looked into the emotion-full glowing orbs. She blushed when she saw me, blood staining the porcelian. Heat burned low in ym chest. She smiled and walked over, her Converse smacking confidently off the ground. She sat down next to me. "Hi," she said, her voice light. There was a current in her words, you looked down at the smooth river and never guessed the second meaning underneath. Her voice spoke in a tone like she was offering a challenge. I accepted. "Hey," I said, not looking looking he rin the eyes anymore. I glanced down at the paper-at the words there. They seemed a little silly now. Why would I want to kill myself when I could marvel eyes like those? I kept quiet for a moment. "So," she drawled, feigning disinterest, "what's your name?"
I sighed a little. "Eli. Yours?" I glanced up then, into those captivating eyes that I will never forget. They shined in victory, as if she'd achieved her highest goal. She stuck out her hand and as I shook it-my rough calloused hand in her soft warm one-she smiled. A beautiful, stunning smile, lighting up my mind like a summer's dawn.
"I'm Julia."
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