Disclaimer: The character portrayed in this story is not mine, and will
never be mine. Sadly.
Here's a nice little one - shot story I thought up - while at dance class, of all places. I got in trouble for daydreaming, but it was worth it. By the way, this story is meant to be H/? - you decide who the ? is.
Misfit
Misfit.
Yeah, that's a good classification of me. The odd one out, the one who doesn't belong, the square peg in a round hole. I was always the misfit. I guess I still am.
I've been that way since as long as I can remember. I was the kid who always stared through a fog at the teacher, who waited impatiently for me to answer the question.
Not that I couldn't answer them, that I wasn't smart enough. But I always had my head in a book. While the teacher was preaching on about right angles, I was far away in some mysterious world - a world where I fit in. The kids would laugh and whisper and point - look, there's Bookworm. They tormented me, slapping my precious novels out of my hands, tearing out the pages. Kids can be so cruel. They'd giggle behind their hands as I walked past, heading for the tree I climbed every recess, to once again lose myself in my mystery world. More often than not, I wouldn't hear the bell ring, and a teacher would come out and drag me into class. You would have thought that teachers would love to find a student who loved to read.
But my literary choices weren't the only thing I was teased about. The kids all told me that my dad wasn't really a doctor, and that my mother was a witch, who flew out every night on a broom. When I was younger, I cried. As I got older, I fought. I remember knocking 3 teeth out of some kid's mouth who had told me my mother was crazy. He held a hand to his lip, shrieking about "Crazy Ben, who was crazier than his old witch of a mother."
They didn't understand. My mother was no witch, she was just..different. One year, she and I got out the paintbrushes and ladders and painted the whole house blue. But not a nice, light, pastel blue - that might have been tolerated in a town that had 46 buildings, all painted white. But no, this was a rich, beautiful "antique azure" sort of blue, my mother said. Matched my eyes, which are the only thing I inherited from her. My hair, my height, my build, I all got from my dad.
But I'm off topic. Anyways, I tolerated the teases, having promised my mother I wouldn't get in any more fights. I grit my teeth and ignored the whispers and giggles, and the pointing. But at home, before my dad and mother came home, I paced about the house, throwing pillows, swearing a blue streak.
The year in eighth grade was the worst. All the guys had girlfriends, except me. I retreated further into myself, spending my recesses in the library, skulking around behind the shelves. I became good friends with the librarian, Mrs. Shwartz, and helped her out with the library office a lot.
That summer, I begged and pleaded to be allowed to go to the high school in Barisville, the next town over. I knew I couldn't get a fresh start in Crabapple Cove, where everyone knew me. Eventually, my parents gave in.
I packed my books into boxes and stowed them in the basement, out of sight. I vowed to stay away from the library - maybe get a spot on the football team, or something. That summer, I worked out, running track, push ups, everything.
I see you sitting there, listening to me, and I see you scoff, thinking, when has he ever been active? The man's most athletic ability is avoiding calisthenics. Not true.
When school started, I was determined to become popular. I introduced myself to the right people, started acting like them - still doing my work, as I intended to become a doctor - but not making it obvious. I had a girlfriend, for the first time in my life, I secured a spot on the football team - I fit in.
Or at least I though I did. But I was only pretending - pretending that I hated school, pretending that the homework assignments were stupid, pretending that it was all one big waste of time. Sure, I seemed to fit in, but only because I wasn't being me.
The real me doesn't tell jokes, or read nudist magazines, or make moves on every woman in sight. This is hard to believe, but it's true. The real me would rather tell a story, read a novel, just be alone. That's who I am.
And maybe one day, I'll tell the rest of the world what I just told you. I see you sitting there, not believing what I'm saying. You fit in fine, you say. But I don't. Not with you, not with anyone. All everyone sees is the fake me, the me that always has something funny to say. But the wisecracks, the quips, they're all things that help me cover up who I am.
And you help, a little. Around you, I can open up a little bit, show you some of the real me. You hear that in the stories I tell, late at night, as we're wrapping in each other' arms, my head resting on your chest. You feel it in the way I cling to you in the dark, each shell that falls sounding to me like the whispers about my mother. You see it in the way that when I am alone, maybe in the Mess Tent, I sit, fearful look in my eyes, waiting for the inevitable bullies to crawl out of the woodwork - inevitable, but invisible..to you. I live in the past, the enemy here is the same enemy that tortured me when I was 11 years old - with no mother to run to, only a smooth white gravestone. But you are another thing I hide - the love that I feel for you can never be shown in the outside world.
But sometimes - such as now, with you sitting in that chair, a mere 2 feet away, your eyes so full of love and understanding - sometimes I don't feel like a misfit. Sometimes, when I'm with you, I fit in.
Ta da! I'm not sure who the "you" is, I had Trapper in mind while I was writing, but it could be anyone. Please review!
Here's a nice little one - shot story I thought up - while at dance class, of all places. I got in trouble for daydreaming, but it was worth it. By the way, this story is meant to be H/? - you decide who the ? is.
Misfit
Misfit.
Yeah, that's a good classification of me. The odd one out, the one who doesn't belong, the square peg in a round hole. I was always the misfit. I guess I still am.
I've been that way since as long as I can remember. I was the kid who always stared through a fog at the teacher, who waited impatiently for me to answer the question.
Not that I couldn't answer them, that I wasn't smart enough. But I always had my head in a book. While the teacher was preaching on about right angles, I was far away in some mysterious world - a world where I fit in. The kids would laugh and whisper and point - look, there's Bookworm. They tormented me, slapping my precious novels out of my hands, tearing out the pages. Kids can be so cruel. They'd giggle behind their hands as I walked past, heading for the tree I climbed every recess, to once again lose myself in my mystery world. More often than not, I wouldn't hear the bell ring, and a teacher would come out and drag me into class. You would have thought that teachers would love to find a student who loved to read.
But my literary choices weren't the only thing I was teased about. The kids all told me that my dad wasn't really a doctor, and that my mother was a witch, who flew out every night on a broom. When I was younger, I cried. As I got older, I fought. I remember knocking 3 teeth out of some kid's mouth who had told me my mother was crazy. He held a hand to his lip, shrieking about "Crazy Ben, who was crazier than his old witch of a mother."
They didn't understand. My mother was no witch, she was just..different. One year, she and I got out the paintbrushes and ladders and painted the whole house blue. But not a nice, light, pastel blue - that might have been tolerated in a town that had 46 buildings, all painted white. But no, this was a rich, beautiful "antique azure" sort of blue, my mother said. Matched my eyes, which are the only thing I inherited from her. My hair, my height, my build, I all got from my dad.
But I'm off topic. Anyways, I tolerated the teases, having promised my mother I wouldn't get in any more fights. I grit my teeth and ignored the whispers and giggles, and the pointing. But at home, before my dad and mother came home, I paced about the house, throwing pillows, swearing a blue streak.
The year in eighth grade was the worst. All the guys had girlfriends, except me. I retreated further into myself, spending my recesses in the library, skulking around behind the shelves. I became good friends with the librarian, Mrs. Shwartz, and helped her out with the library office a lot.
That summer, I begged and pleaded to be allowed to go to the high school in Barisville, the next town over. I knew I couldn't get a fresh start in Crabapple Cove, where everyone knew me. Eventually, my parents gave in.
I packed my books into boxes and stowed them in the basement, out of sight. I vowed to stay away from the library - maybe get a spot on the football team, or something. That summer, I worked out, running track, push ups, everything.
I see you sitting there, listening to me, and I see you scoff, thinking, when has he ever been active? The man's most athletic ability is avoiding calisthenics. Not true.
When school started, I was determined to become popular. I introduced myself to the right people, started acting like them - still doing my work, as I intended to become a doctor - but not making it obvious. I had a girlfriend, for the first time in my life, I secured a spot on the football team - I fit in.
Or at least I though I did. But I was only pretending - pretending that I hated school, pretending that the homework assignments were stupid, pretending that it was all one big waste of time. Sure, I seemed to fit in, but only because I wasn't being me.
The real me doesn't tell jokes, or read nudist magazines, or make moves on every woman in sight. This is hard to believe, but it's true. The real me would rather tell a story, read a novel, just be alone. That's who I am.
And maybe one day, I'll tell the rest of the world what I just told you. I see you sitting there, not believing what I'm saying. You fit in fine, you say. But I don't. Not with you, not with anyone. All everyone sees is the fake me, the me that always has something funny to say. But the wisecracks, the quips, they're all things that help me cover up who I am.
And you help, a little. Around you, I can open up a little bit, show you some of the real me. You hear that in the stories I tell, late at night, as we're wrapping in each other' arms, my head resting on your chest. You feel it in the way I cling to you in the dark, each shell that falls sounding to me like the whispers about my mother. You see it in the way that when I am alone, maybe in the Mess Tent, I sit, fearful look in my eyes, waiting for the inevitable bullies to crawl out of the woodwork - inevitable, but invisible..to you. I live in the past, the enemy here is the same enemy that tortured me when I was 11 years old - with no mother to run to, only a smooth white gravestone. But you are another thing I hide - the love that I feel for you can never be shown in the outside world.
But sometimes - such as now, with you sitting in that chair, a mere 2 feet away, your eyes so full of love and understanding - sometimes I don't feel like a misfit. Sometimes, when I'm with you, I fit in.
Ta da! I'm not sure who the "you" is, I had Trapper in mind while I was writing, but it could be anyone. Please review!