You know the drill. I don't own Pokemon or anything like that. If I did, it wouldn't be FAN FICTION, would it?
(AN: I wrote this while listening to "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam.)
I can't stand it anymore. I can't put up with this charade any longer. I'm sick of trying to be what everyone wants me to be and finding out they don't like that, either. I've talked to the Pokemon about it, but they can't talk back. They probably didn't even get what I was saying. But it's better that they don't understand it. I walk into my room. I scan around the mess of paper and a wide variety of pencils, looking for something but not knowing what. I drop myself onto the bed and shuffle through my works.
I spend most of my money on art supplies. Tools to the perfect world. I can create whatever I want; I can make life the way I want it to be with only a pencil. Drawing has always been my lifestyle. My parents didn't like it. I wasn't as outgoing as my siblings, I spent my time in my room, happily scribbling away. I'd draw anything. Most of my old pictures were of family, neighbors and kids from school. I felt like I had established myself already, while my siblings still thought they were going to be astronauts and movie stars. But my parents didn't like my behavior. They thought I had some sort of personality disorder when I was merely being myself. They took me to a child therapist over the summer. The man humored me by pretending to be interested in my drawing. Of course I was too young and naive to know he was faking it to try to squeeze what he wanted to hear out of me, so I soaked it up. But I still didn't give him what he wanted, because I only talked about drawing--the thing I knew best. I wasn't hiding anything, but he and my parents persisted. I still wouldn't budge. I just turned nine by the time I was out of therapy, and the man determined that I was withdrawn, cause unknown. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but I figured that my parents were done pestering me and I could go back to taking down the better parts of my life on paper.
My parents were done. They apparently just gave up and decided to let me be. But when I went back to school, it had circulated that I went to see a therapist, although the kids had their own definition: I was sent to the loony bin. For the next few weeks I heard people calling me crazy and psycho daily. People would mockingly run away from me. I didn't mind too much at first; I just took those people out of the pictures of the perfect part of my life. But it didn't stop. Kids started picking on me directly, and I'd occasionally go home with a few bruises. I knew if I tried talking to my parents about it they'd send me right back to that man. Jake and Amber were obviously the ones who told everyone where I'd been all summer, so I didn't say anything to them. I started getting beat up more, probably because I didn't tell anyone, and by now I made it known it bothered me. I'd wear long sleeves and pants no matter how warm it was, simply so I could hide any bodily damage. It wasn't too hard to hide my face; all I had to do was act like I was buried in a picture when I came home. Drawing became more of an escape for me, since I hid myself from my family. I didn't have any friends anymore, they were all afraid of me. It figured. Either everyone was afraid of me or I was afraid of them.
There was one kid in particular that liked to pick on me. He was thirteen years old, I never knew his name. All I knew is that he'd shove me around almost every day. He's the reason my parents found out in the first place. One day after school when he was teasing me, I made the mistake of trying to leave. He got a little annoyed at first, but I entirely pissed him off when I didn't come back when he told me to. I knew he was coming after me, so I started running. When he caught up to me, he threw me onto the ground and started beating the living daylight out of me. His mistake was that we were still on school grounds, and one of the teachers got him away from me. When she pulled him up, he grabbed onto a lock of my hair and threw my head down. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was Amber sitting me up and calling to me.
"Tracey, are you all right? Answer me, Trace! Are you okay? Come on!" I just shut my eyes and tried to block out her voice along with the teacher screaming at the other boy. I just wanted to go to sleep and make my head stop throbbing.
When I woke up in my bed that night, there was no one around. I recalled the events earlier that afternoon. My head was still hurting, but I pulled a pad of paper off of the floor and a pencil off of the desk and began to draw. I drew my perfect little life again, but there was something different about this picture. It wasn't real. I drew a beautiful creek with a beautiful mountain view behind it. It was calm, peaceful. I wanted to be there and just take in the serenity. I wanted to sit there alone and be part of that perfect world. I never finished that picture. My hands hurt too much from that day.
The next morning my Mother told me that she and Dad found out that I had been getting beat up for a while. She said that she was upset about it, but it could have been avoided if I talked to them about it. Then she told me I was going back to therapy. She said the psychologist was right, that I was too withdrawn. I never felt withdrawn until they decided I had a problem and dumped me off with some stranger. Going to therapy made me stop trusting my parents. Going back there would probably make me hate them.
That was the night I ran away from home. I was nine years old and living off of the lousy sixty dollars that I had saved up. But I wasn't alone for long. One night I was sleeping under a fallen tree by a river. I learned that that place was the home of a Marill, but it didn't seem to upset that I was there. It was a little scared at first, but I assured it that I meant no harm. We shared the shelter that night, and the next day Marill decided it wanted to come with me. That was when I became fascinated with Pokemon; when I had one to learn about. After a couple of years of research I knew a lot about Pokemon and their special traits. I loved drawing them, and I took up being a Pokemon Watcher. Marill and I caught a Venonat soon after I began my new career. Venonat have excellent vision, so it helped me in finding new Pokemon.
When I was fifteen I met Ash and Misty. I decided to travel with them because I found out they knew Professor Samuel Oak. During my Pokemon research, I learned about all of his amazing discoveries and theories, and I admired the way he cared for Pokemon so deeply. I actually came to like Ash and Misty. I put on a show so they wouldn't ask about my family or anything. I acted like I was always happy so they would never question me. I sort of enjoyed being the backbone in the group, and I liked taking care of the two younger kids. But I didn't want them to take care of me; I did that myself. I put on an act that I didn't have any problems in the past. Hell, I acted like I had no past. I had finally found someone else to care about so I wouldn't be so self-involved.
When I stayed with Professor Oak while Ash and Misty went to Johto, I missed them. I was so sure we'd keep in touch, but they never talked to me when they called. They never even said hi. They had forgotten about me. I felt as if they rejected me... But at least they were more straightforward about it than my parents were.
I've been here for a year now. I've learned so much about Pokemon and for so long I felt like I actually had a role here. I felt needed. Respected. All I wanted was to be respected. But only now do I realize that it's not me that's needed. It's the fake me that I present to everyone else, the one who's always happy. And ever since that one day when I was nine years old, the pictures of my perfect world have all been fictional. It's now only a dream. Just like everything else I believed in this Godforsaken world. I can't do it anymore.
I lay the papers back down on the floor and leave my room. I wander down the hall, checking the clock hanging over the stairwell. Four twenty-seven P.M. Professor Oak isn't home. I'm alone, except for the Pokemon outside. I make my way into the bathroom.
How long has it been? Sixteen years. Wow. That's quite a while, but I'm still young. A lifetime must last an eternity. What can you spend seventy years doing? I kneel down and run the faucet over the tub. The water's cold now. Eight years. I haven't been happy in eight years. I haven't felt free in eight years. I didn't think there was anything wrong with me. I stop the water when the tub is halfway filled. Of course, Mommy and Daddy are always right. I need some ice. Too withdrawn. No, I can do without ice. I wonder how long until I'd be happy again? I pull a razor blade off of the shelf. Did I already get my share of happiness? I've been alone so long. For the first time in seven years, I don't want to be alone. I'm sick of being someone else when I'm around other people.
The cheap metal shreds through my vein. I scream. I haven't screamed in real pain since I was nine. But now it's my choice. I shove my wrist under the freezing water. My hand is numb. I press my right hand fingers on the bloody blade. I don't feel my left anymore. I'm a righty anyway. I didn't want to be hurt then. I wanted to be happy again. That was before I learned to live without it. I guess I forgot how. I gaze down through the red water. I can't feel my hand but I see it. It looks lame. Everything does. My eyes feel heavy. God, my stomach hurts. I wonder when the Professor will come home? He always leaves me alone. I've been alone for eight years. I can't hold my head up. I traveled alone for years. Well... I wasn't entirely alone. I... I wasn't alone. I had Marill. She's been there... Oh God, Marill! I can't get up. God dammit. I'm sorry, Marill. You've been here with me for years and now I'm leaving you without even thinking it over. I'm so sorry. It fucking hurts... I'm sorry. I screwed up again.
(AN: I wrote this while listening to "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam.)
I can't stand it anymore. I can't put up with this charade any longer. I'm sick of trying to be what everyone wants me to be and finding out they don't like that, either. I've talked to the Pokemon about it, but they can't talk back. They probably didn't even get what I was saying. But it's better that they don't understand it. I walk into my room. I scan around the mess of paper and a wide variety of pencils, looking for something but not knowing what. I drop myself onto the bed and shuffle through my works.
I spend most of my money on art supplies. Tools to the perfect world. I can create whatever I want; I can make life the way I want it to be with only a pencil. Drawing has always been my lifestyle. My parents didn't like it. I wasn't as outgoing as my siblings, I spent my time in my room, happily scribbling away. I'd draw anything. Most of my old pictures were of family, neighbors and kids from school. I felt like I had established myself already, while my siblings still thought they were going to be astronauts and movie stars. But my parents didn't like my behavior. They thought I had some sort of personality disorder when I was merely being myself. They took me to a child therapist over the summer. The man humored me by pretending to be interested in my drawing. Of course I was too young and naive to know he was faking it to try to squeeze what he wanted to hear out of me, so I soaked it up. But I still didn't give him what he wanted, because I only talked about drawing--the thing I knew best. I wasn't hiding anything, but he and my parents persisted. I still wouldn't budge. I just turned nine by the time I was out of therapy, and the man determined that I was withdrawn, cause unknown. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but I figured that my parents were done pestering me and I could go back to taking down the better parts of my life on paper.
My parents were done. They apparently just gave up and decided to let me be. But when I went back to school, it had circulated that I went to see a therapist, although the kids had their own definition: I was sent to the loony bin. For the next few weeks I heard people calling me crazy and psycho daily. People would mockingly run away from me. I didn't mind too much at first; I just took those people out of the pictures of the perfect part of my life. But it didn't stop. Kids started picking on me directly, and I'd occasionally go home with a few bruises. I knew if I tried talking to my parents about it they'd send me right back to that man. Jake and Amber were obviously the ones who told everyone where I'd been all summer, so I didn't say anything to them. I started getting beat up more, probably because I didn't tell anyone, and by now I made it known it bothered me. I'd wear long sleeves and pants no matter how warm it was, simply so I could hide any bodily damage. It wasn't too hard to hide my face; all I had to do was act like I was buried in a picture when I came home. Drawing became more of an escape for me, since I hid myself from my family. I didn't have any friends anymore, they were all afraid of me. It figured. Either everyone was afraid of me or I was afraid of them.
There was one kid in particular that liked to pick on me. He was thirteen years old, I never knew his name. All I knew is that he'd shove me around almost every day. He's the reason my parents found out in the first place. One day after school when he was teasing me, I made the mistake of trying to leave. He got a little annoyed at first, but I entirely pissed him off when I didn't come back when he told me to. I knew he was coming after me, so I started running. When he caught up to me, he threw me onto the ground and started beating the living daylight out of me. His mistake was that we were still on school grounds, and one of the teachers got him away from me. When she pulled him up, he grabbed onto a lock of my hair and threw my head down. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was Amber sitting me up and calling to me.
"Tracey, are you all right? Answer me, Trace! Are you okay? Come on!" I just shut my eyes and tried to block out her voice along with the teacher screaming at the other boy. I just wanted to go to sleep and make my head stop throbbing.
When I woke up in my bed that night, there was no one around. I recalled the events earlier that afternoon. My head was still hurting, but I pulled a pad of paper off of the floor and a pencil off of the desk and began to draw. I drew my perfect little life again, but there was something different about this picture. It wasn't real. I drew a beautiful creek with a beautiful mountain view behind it. It was calm, peaceful. I wanted to be there and just take in the serenity. I wanted to sit there alone and be part of that perfect world. I never finished that picture. My hands hurt too much from that day.
The next morning my Mother told me that she and Dad found out that I had been getting beat up for a while. She said that she was upset about it, but it could have been avoided if I talked to them about it. Then she told me I was going back to therapy. She said the psychologist was right, that I was too withdrawn. I never felt withdrawn until they decided I had a problem and dumped me off with some stranger. Going to therapy made me stop trusting my parents. Going back there would probably make me hate them.
That was the night I ran away from home. I was nine years old and living off of the lousy sixty dollars that I had saved up. But I wasn't alone for long. One night I was sleeping under a fallen tree by a river. I learned that that place was the home of a Marill, but it didn't seem to upset that I was there. It was a little scared at first, but I assured it that I meant no harm. We shared the shelter that night, and the next day Marill decided it wanted to come with me. That was when I became fascinated with Pokemon; when I had one to learn about. After a couple of years of research I knew a lot about Pokemon and their special traits. I loved drawing them, and I took up being a Pokemon Watcher. Marill and I caught a Venonat soon after I began my new career. Venonat have excellent vision, so it helped me in finding new Pokemon.
When I was fifteen I met Ash and Misty. I decided to travel with them because I found out they knew Professor Samuel Oak. During my Pokemon research, I learned about all of his amazing discoveries and theories, and I admired the way he cared for Pokemon so deeply. I actually came to like Ash and Misty. I put on a show so they wouldn't ask about my family or anything. I acted like I was always happy so they would never question me. I sort of enjoyed being the backbone in the group, and I liked taking care of the two younger kids. But I didn't want them to take care of me; I did that myself. I put on an act that I didn't have any problems in the past. Hell, I acted like I had no past. I had finally found someone else to care about so I wouldn't be so self-involved.
When I stayed with Professor Oak while Ash and Misty went to Johto, I missed them. I was so sure we'd keep in touch, but they never talked to me when they called. They never even said hi. They had forgotten about me. I felt as if they rejected me... But at least they were more straightforward about it than my parents were.
I've been here for a year now. I've learned so much about Pokemon and for so long I felt like I actually had a role here. I felt needed. Respected. All I wanted was to be respected. But only now do I realize that it's not me that's needed. It's the fake me that I present to everyone else, the one who's always happy. And ever since that one day when I was nine years old, the pictures of my perfect world have all been fictional. It's now only a dream. Just like everything else I believed in this Godforsaken world. I can't do it anymore.
I lay the papers back down on the floor and leave my room. I wander down the hall, checking the clock hanging over the stairwell. Four twenty-seven P.M. Professor Oak isn't home. I'm alone, except for the Pokemon outside. I make my way into the bathroom.
How long has it been? Sixteen years. Wow. That's quite a while, but I'm still young. A lifetime must last an eternity. What can you spend seventy years doing? I kneel down and run the faucet over the tub. The water's cold now. Eight years. I haven't been happy in eight years. I haven't felt free in eight years. I didn't think there was anything wrong with me. I stop the water when the tub is halfway filled. Of course, Mommy and Daddy are always right. I need some ice. Too withdrawn. No, I can do without ice. I wonder how long until I'd be happy again? I pull a razor blade off of the shelf. Did I already get my share of happiness? I've been alone so long. For the first time in seven years, I don't want to be alone. I'm sick of being someone else when I'm around other people.
The cheap metal shreds through my vein. I scream. I haven't screamed in real pain since I was nine. But now it's my choice. I shove my wrist under the freezing water. My hand is numb. I press my right hand fingers on the bloody blade. I don't feel my left anymore. I'm a righty anyway. I didn't want to be hurt then. I wanted to be happy again. That was before I learned to live without it. I guess I forgot how. I gaze down through the red water. I can't feel my hand but I see it. It looks lame. Everything does. My eyes feel heavy. God, my stomach hurts. I wonder when the Professor will come home? He always leaves me alone. I've been alone for eight years. I can't hold my head up. I traveled alone for years. Well... I wasn't entirely alone. I... I wasn't alone. I had Marill. She's been there... Oh God, Marill! I can't get up. God dammit. I'm sorry, Marill. You've been here with me for years and now I'm leaving you without even thinking it over. I'm so sorry. It fucking hurts... I'm sorry. I screwed up again.