Disclaimer: little old me obviously does not own any content or characters from To Kill A Mockingbird. All of that is Harper Lee's but this is just me adding some of my own thoughts that i had while reading the book.
also this is my first fic :( i dont know what im meant to be doing here
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I think I'm the most unlovable person in the world. I'm like when you try and push the wrong ends of two magnets together and they just won't stick, no matter how hard you push because there's something there forcing them away from each other. That thing is me. I don't know what it is about me that people don't like, but every time I try and make a friend, it's like I'm wearing some kind of bug spray for people. I'm always the last picked for teams, someone always grumbles about having to be my partner, I always have a row to myself on the bus even if all the other seats are full and people are standing.
I've gotten used to it, mostly. When the bell rings for lunch, I have to put all my things in my bag. The teachers let us leave them in the classroom, but I can't, or else one of the boys will sneak in and steal them on me. I don't think they want them. I tried asking them once if they needed their own pencils because they always took mine- I thought maybe they didn't have any. They laughed at me, so I think they did, and my stuff is pretty shabby- I wouldn't want them if I were those boys, but that doesn't matter because I know better now. I'll sit down under the big pecan tree that everyone knows is my spot and take out my sketchbook, and watch the other kids. Some of them sit and talk, most play games. I like to draw them- I listen to them talk if I can hear, I learn things about them. Maybe one day, if any of them would talk to me, I could talk about it with them. I don't know if I like drawing them anymore though- not since Diana Jacobs snatched my sketchbook off me and saw a drawing of herself and yelled at me that I was a freak. Am I a freak? I drew her because I could see her clearly, that's all, and she has nice hair. Is that freaky? Maybe people hate me because I'm a freak.
When I don't feel like drawing, I focus on other things to keep me busy. Counting helps. I know that there's 376 tiles on the school roof. The fence that blocks off the Radley place has twelve posts and two rows of wood beams that run sideways. The pecan tree is right beside the fence, the Radleys have some in their yard too. I've heard people say that the pecans would kill you if you ate them, but I eat them all the time, and I'm okay. I was scared to try one at first, but back then, we hadn't had food at home for weeks, and I thought I'd have died from not eating anyway. They're a good snack when I have no lunch with me.
Sometimes, I look through the fence to try to see Boo Radley. I talk to him when I'm bored, but I don't know if he hears me. People say he's a monster, a freak, and that he's chained to the bed by his papa, but that doesn't make him a monster, right? My papa's never chained me up, but he did tie me to a door one time so he could hit me with his belt. Maybe that's why I'm a freak too. Does Boo know people call him a freak? Probably- I know all the things people say about me. Dirty, crazy, beaten. Maybe we could be freaks together. Maybe he could be my friend, if he'd ever appear.
So far he hasn't, though. Before, while I waited to see him, I used to talk to my mama, up in Heaven, I hope. Our priest came to my school one time- I asked him if he knew her, when she was alive, and asked if she got into Heaven. He said that my mama had been a bad woman- I've heard people call her an addict- but that only God can know who makes it to Heaven. I've prayed by my bed every night since then, so I really hope it's enough for God. I don't know what an addict is, but I liked to think my mama was good, and that she loved me a lot when she was alive, and that she was my friend. I used to talk to her about papa and my brothers who she never met and my school. I cried to her a few times about being lonely. I used to write letters to her and put them under my pillow when I went to sleep, hoping that they'd be gone in the morning and she'd get to read them. They never left, but papa found them. He burned them all, then pulled my hair and punched me. He told me that mama had died of a broken heart because she hated me so much, and that I wasn't to write to her again or he'd batter me to death. I don't know if he's right, because papa lies sometimes, but I've stopped talking to mama just in case she doesn't want to hear from me. I still pray for her though, once I make sure papa can't hear me. I don't think he's lying about killing me.
But sometimes, I don't know if that would be so bad. Nobody likes me alive. Papa tells me he loves me when he's drunk and he kisses me, or when he makes me take off my shirt while he reaches down his pants, but then other times he hits me and kicks me and tells me he hates me, and I don't know which one is right. I have no friends. My brothers are too small to like me, and they pull my hair and bite me and annoy me. Rich ladies like to glare at me when I walk past them. Old people shake their heads when I say hello to them. I think people would like me better if I was dead. I think I'd go to Heaven- I pray, I go to church myself if papa's too drunk to go with me, I'm not an addict like mama. If I went to Heaven I'd maybe meet some friends. People hated Jesus, right? Maybe he could be my friend. All those dead people, there'd have to be someone who liked me a little bit. Even if I couldn't make friends, I wouldn't be so hungry as a ghost, I wouldn't need to eat. Nobody would hurt me, papa couldn't beat me. Maybe I'll ask him about killing me one day, but only he isn't drunk and won't get mad. I'd want him to kill me quickly, not in a sore way. If he was drunk, he would beat me to death.
Then again, I don't know if that would work. I still haven't figured out what it is people hate about me. If I'm dead, I might not have the chance to change whatever it is. Maybe it's good to stay alive right now, just in case. Maybe I'll make a friend someday. Maybe things will get better. I like thinking things'll get better, it keeps me going. But I don't know how long I can keep going. I'm so tired, and so so so lonely. If this is all my life is gonna be then I don't want to live it, but I guess we'll just have to see.