My first fanfiction. Sorry if it sucks, I'm new to the whole uploading thing (not to writing). But, if you give this story a chance, I'm sure you'll like it. Please, enjoy!
Summary: "I wouldn't exactly call myself a hopeless romantic. But even if romance is something that I personally crave; I have zero time for it. Music is the natural thing to focus on right now, the same with my studies. I need to let myself get lost in the melodies, not the romance. Especially with blonde bad boys. A.K.A: Austin Moon." / Auslly.
A/N: The bold "~" that pops up in a sentence is a mini disclaimer for when I name something that I don't own. Just to clear that up.
Rating: Rated T. I'm not one to write Rated M, so there's no need to worry about that. But this is STRONGLY Rated T. Graphic and detailed. [In later chapters] Don't say I didn't warn ya, lassie.
Disclaimer: I don't own Austin & Ally. If it wasn't obvious before. Hell, I'd have a better laptop if I did.
LET THE FANFICTION COMMENCE!~
Music. It has always been my utmost favorite art above all. It sweeps me off my feet and takes me into another world; where I can create words to flow together in a beautiful harmony, with a melody to match. Only music. Dancing isn't truly my scene, to be impartial. My dancing appears similar to a banjaxed octopus. I'd much rather not speak of it.
Acting? Oh, heavens, no. Whenever an attractive boy is within earshot (a boy named Dallas Centineo comes to mind), I try my best to remain calm and collected, like I didn't care. Instead, my eyes dart from left to right, my foot begins tapping at a hypersonic pace, and my speaking is all over the place. My words flip, my tongue twists, and I continuously need to keep taking deep breaths. Of course, the boy just has to walk closer to me, which will cause me to laugh like a horse after a joke that utterly made no sense. And I get weird looks from a numerous amount of people. So, I cannot act "natural" for anything.
Dancing and Acting do not make it on my list of achievements.
Many, many things in this world are considered art. I won't disagree. There's art itself, music, acting, dancing, cooking, photography, singing, teaching, composing, directing, producing, writing, and even reading. All are considered legitimate art.
I, quite frankly, prefer reading, writing, singing, and music to be more artistic. Don't get me wrong, everything in this world is considered art. But, I am incapable of most. Imagine me, Allyson Marie Dawson, going up on stage, singing one of the top-selling singles of my previous platinum album.
It's hard to imagine, right?
Right. Because of my terrible stage-fright, and my horrible skill of singing, I will never get on stage. Nobody can force me onto a stage in front of thousands, and still manage to have an arm attached to their shoulder socket. I mean, I'm not a violent person, but.. I'll stab someone.
No one's afraid of a bag of bones unless it's a dead body. And I can assure you, I'm not dead. Just invisible to all of the kids at school. High school can be lonely and cruel.
Even if I am moving to Florida, to a brand new school, it's still going to be the same setup.
I will still be shoved during hallway traffic. I will continue to eat lunch by myself. I will remain sobbing into my songbook in the corner of the library. Everything will stay the same; just in a different place. Nothing will change.
Should I make an effort to make life better for myself? Of course! Could I make myself more approachable and smile a bit more? Sure! Would I succeed? Nope!
Pardon my sarcasm. It's just.. I've been feeling like such a failure lately in my studies, music, writing, and my own personal life.
"Allyson?" My teacher inquired, causing me to pop out of my thoughts.
"Uh-yes ma'am?" I acknowledge shrilly, halting my stare out the window on the opposite side of the classroom. "Pay attention. Eyes on the board." Sighing, I sit up in my seat, eyes fixing on the teacher. It's not prevalent for Ally Dawson to not focus on her studies in class. You see, this is why my worries get in the way of things. I rest my chin on my hand, wandering back into my thoughts.
In the silence of the classroom, I was not familiar with no sound or music surrounding me. Which is why random songs pop into my brain. As inaudible as I could manage, I hummed the tune of Hanging On~.
In the midst of my hushed humming, my thoughts had manufactured a pause\play button. I was currently settled on 'play', letting the thoughts whisk around.
Due to the fact that I love making pros and cons lists, I created one in my mind.
Pro: I enjoy singing and writing music. They're both my favorite pastimes.
Con: One singer overpowers over all of the others. If I'm not the overpowering singer, I may not get as noticed as I would (if I didn't have stage fright) vice-versa. And, of course I cannot be the overpowering singer, because I'm much too fidgety and needy of a human being to do so.
Pro: If I cannot make it in the singing business, I can move myself behind-the-scenes, where I can write the music instead.
Con: My music writing may be disliked and not taken seriously. Then I'd become homeless, with nothing to pay the bills; of course. Then I'd slowly starve to death on the streets becoming a pathetic beggar which everyone ignores(not a huge life change there besides the beggar part) and despises. After that, I'd die on the street where people could run me over with their cars to the point where I would become apart of the road-
I hit the pause button of my brain. Paranoia had consumed me virtually all the way in that pros and cons list. I plan not to make another for a while.
I still dwell on my future. It needed to be involved with music. It had to! Just.. losing all the inspirations of the songs that I was planning to write; it doesn't excite me as much as it used to. If I gain a disinterest in writing poetry, simple writing, or even to stop writing music—I have no idea with that I would do with myself.
My thought floated back to moving with my father. To the city of Miami, an ebullient and jaunty place where music blasted at sand and litter ridden beaches, blondes burning their skin and going out on the waves, still burning their skin because they didn't apply a substantial amount of sunscreen.
Enough about the negativity, Allyson! I shake my head obdurately, in realization that I was ignoring an important academic lesson. Pondering, I let my thoughts add one more thing before I melted into the education.
Hopefully, moving to a sunny place will lighten my spirits a bit. Also, Miami is filled with breezy beaches. Maybe some of the gorgeous vistas would inspire me? Let's hope so.
Considering I was deposited on my nonexistent talent due to a failed MUNY audition.. 2 years ago.
Dear Songbook,
Currently, my father is driving the two of us to our new home. He's too cheap to pay for a flight; which would be much quicker. What a dweeb.
Not that I should be talking big..
Anyway, I don't really know what to feel about this whole moving situation. Should I be happy? Ecstatic, even? Depressed? I wouldn't want to be a bother and make him feel guilty. I'm not sure.
Maybe I feel numb about it. I just feel.. nothing for it. Like it doesn't matter. Well.. sort of. I'm not really expecting anything to happen. I'd be the same Ally Dawson everyone doesn't know and hates. I know, I know, it's important to be confident about one's self and have self-dignity.
I, however, do not feel stabilized with the need of importance. I'm like the sun in a person's eyes. Yet they don't see me.
I believe I just found some song lyrics!
I turned a page of my songbook/diary, then smoothed my palm over the fresh, clean paper. I readied my pen over the page, letting the lyrics flow out.
I'm the sun in your eyes,
Yet, you don't see me;
I wear no disguise,
But you don't see me;
I'm a total surprise,
And you don't see me;
I'm so agonized,
That you don't see me;
You don't see me here ...
I nodded along with the melody in my head. I preferred it to be more of a low-spirited, woeful ballad to how my life is—not that I want any empathy. More like I want people to know my story. To relate to my view on life. People who know what it's like to be invisible can understand.
Actually, yes, it does sound more like a cry for empathy when I think about it..
"Ally?" I heard my father say. I turned my head to him, focusing on his features that I've gotten so used to. He was getting older and older by the day.
"So, uh, what do you expect to do when we're off in Miami?" he asked me in his lazy Texan drawl. "You know I moved there for business." He told me, eyes shifting from me to the road.
I nodded, turning my eyes to the road in front of me as well. "Ehm.. same thing, I guess." I answered him honestly. I could see in the front mirror that my father was frowning, his thick eyebrows being creased.
"And.. what was the 'thing' that you were doin' back in Texas?" He quizzed, peering over at me slightly. I quirked my eyebrow. It was like he was interrogating me, acting suspicious. He knows very well that I do not have a daring bone in my body. Or a confident one, at that.
"Well, nothing, really," I replied. "Just.. writing. Maybe." I chewed the inside of my cheek, hoping he'd be satisfied with that answer, so he would stop digging into my personal life.
My father and I weren't entirely warm with one another. Ever since my mother moved to Africa for her studies, she was partly doing it to get away from him. She calls me every once in a while, just to check up on me. He certainly wasn't abusive. Not physically, anyway.
Verbally.
"Writing?" he questioned, still delving into the uninteresting conversation. "I thought you did singin'. Ever since that audition-"
"I do," I cut in sharply. "I'm sure I can do more than just one hobby, dad." My father frowned again, continuously glancing at me. "I thought you wanted to do this as a .. workin' job. Y'know, get paid for the things you love doing." I nodded discernibly, wanting to change the subject. "Yeah," I answered shortly. "Exactly."
He glimpsed down at my songbook, secured on my lap. "What's that?" He motioned his head towards it.
"My diary." I half-lied. "Mom gave it to me before she left." Now that really set him off. He clenched his hands on the car's steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
"I told you t-to never speak of that woman, dammit!" he yelled, swerving the car over a bit, nearly running into a tree. "Stop it!" I cried, hugging the songbook to my chest of the little chance of protection I had. He breathed heavily, getting the car back in control.
"Never.. speak.. of.. her.." he seethed, trying to get his breathing settled. I nodded meekly, my hair ringlets disheveled. "Got it!?" he shouted a second time, which made me jump. "Yes." I yelped, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. I was such a spineless human being.
If only I knew the beginning of it.
3 days later, on Monday morning, I stood in front of my closet, fighting with my brain just to find the right thing to wear.
It was finally time for a new path down the road of schoolhood. Now it was full of learning and important studies and more Study Hall so I can write in my songbook more. Yes, I'd choose my songbook over learning anyday.
Anyway, it's Miami and I still haven't gone to the beach. Maybe during the weekend. God knows if I'll even find a good-natured friend by that time. Otherwise, I'll just walk alone. I've gotten quite used to it.
"Allyson! Hurry up!" My father boomed, which made the closet door shake ever so slightly. I rolled my eyes in frustration. He clearly didn't know it punctually took me 10 minutes to get changed, tops.
I was set on my yellow skater skirt, my chunky brown belt, a green floral blouse, and my brown flats. I put my hair up in a swift ponytail, letting it swing freely. Picking up my songbook and my bag, I stood before the mirror. I assumed it was finally time to leave. I checked my songbook for the school name and address. Marino High.
Excellent. (Prominent Sarcasm)
I slowed my walking down the stairs, trying to anger my father on purpose. It was one of the few ways that I could unleash my anger. If I ever yelled at him, I'd uppercut myself into the sun.
"Allyson!" He boomed again, rounding to the bottom of the steps. Wincing at the sudden noise increase, I made it to the bottom of the steps. Things were still awkward between us since that argument. He crossed his arms authoratively. "You ready to go?" He asked me, making sure I was ready. "Yes, but I can walk myself. It's only two blocks." His teeth clenched. "I'm driving you. I wouldn't want you to get hurt." He scraped his keys up from the kitchen counter. My facial features tightened. "I'm seventeen. I can defend myself." I turned around on my heels, while my father continued lecturing me. "I still have the pepper spray!" I yelled into the house, slamming the door.
The nerve of that guy, I fumed.
If only he was the only person that would anger me that day.
Reviews would be amazing.
~: Hanging On - Ellie Goulding