She Wanted a Mark

She leaned back in the chair and made herself attractive. She did not want to disgrace the hospitality with her unsightly presence. She went through the motions, picked up the book, read for a while, failed to comprehend, re-read for a while, made slight comprehension and moved on. As she continued to read, she started to feel an uneasy feeling, one that a woman feels when she is in a foreign place, one where she cannot be sure if she is safe. She did not want to turn around, of course she knew no one was behind her, it was more of an unfamiliarity that made her uncomforable, like she did not belong. She immediately started to search, somewhat frantically, for a sign of HIM, anything that was his, all his own, something he would take home with him and carelessly throw in the car seat next to him and toss on a table. There was the lunch box. It was blue, and it was him, by his mug and stained with familiarity. She wanted to touch it, to absolutely hold it, not brush it with a finger, but physically grab it in her hands and rub her palms on it, to make sure that it is real, and make sure that it will stay, that this is his place and no one can intrude. She had the urge to leave something of her own, to leave her mark and make it her safe haven. To have him see it and think of her when he next looks at the place where she had rested her tiara, to see its sparkle and think of her and her troubles. She needed this, and him, and wanted this, and him. There were fruity marshmallows, gross and enticing on the table. When someone enters the room, it feels like Mrs. *******, It is always Mrs. *******, it always has been and always will be. The kid sits in the front row, on the right, my left. He keeps sniffling, and it is so close, it bounds into the little windows and magnifies, it sounds like he is inside the room with me. All of Mr.'s shuffled foot steps, they sound like he wants to come near, but keeps getting called away. There is a ticking up above me, it is natural, the sound of the building, intrusive to her ears but comforting because it means that it is real, that she is real, that she is in the room and the room possesses her. She sees too many s's, too many double letters, so many double letters, it makes her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable. That was accurate and true and it doesn't sting, but pricks, creates the little goosebumps that crawl up and down your legs and armor your arms so that anyone who tries to touch you will be hurt and want to jump back. She thought of those who cut and burn themselves, and pitied them, then thought of the possibility. She doesn't want the pain, she wants the mark. The physical, visible, realistic mark which is a  public indicator of her struggles, her petty, unimportant struggles which plague her and are bothersome to the rest of society. The calculator is off, but there is a patch. A pixel patch, one that looks like a flamingo, or a tiny woman with an umbrella, it looks like rain, like yellow and red stripes and a mahogany handle and a blue rain coat and yellow boots. It looks primary and like elementary school, which makes her think of sixth grade, which makes her think of guilt, which makes her think of the musky, dark, mildewy hallways of the damp mold stained middle school and misery and first forbidden crushes and hidden affection and unfruitful flirting and people who don't truly like her and those she will never meet again and those she wants to see again and those she never will want to and things that she is not apart of and things that she wants to do but feels like she doesn't belong and that she isn't cool enough and that this sadness is normal and perpetual and without reason yet without solution, that she will suffer forever and no man will love her and she won't have friends and she will never not sleep with her teddy bear, who is her best friend and she can tell all of her secrets to and he will never complain or tell. But now she has a new best friend, and now she is giving him away, now he is gone probably and she may lose him, she doesn't want to hurt him, she still cares somewhere, it hurts because he cares and she never saw it until she was done, so done and so alone and so in pain. But now she has dug too deep and cannot reach the top, sure he can boost her but she isn't strong enough to pull him back up, or she can struggle and hurt and break under his step as I try to help him reach the top, but even if he grasps the lip of the hole, he isn't strong enough to pull himself up, and I will spend the rest of my life groveling in the mud and pushing him and crying for him, and crying for me, and crying because I can, until there is so much mud that I am burried, and him, oh my gosh him, he will only get his feet dirty, and he doesn't know, he feels like she is digging away when she is really being sucked down into the fiery inferno hell of the center of this heated Earth which everything is supposed to revolve around, but it doesn't, she revolves around everyone else. Interupted messages, ones that are just cut off, all of the characters stuck and without hope of breathing, just stuck in nonexistence, one letter typed away from saying something or doing something beyond their command. How do I know that I am not living this life, one where when everything is somewhat okay, or I am panicking and short of breath, that someone has not just put down their pen or slammed close the lid, removing the ink that is the blood bursting messily through my veins and staining my skin with words and stories unique only to me annd no one can every spy upon them again. That I am not really thinking, but wondering, wondering why I cannot just think for myself, abandon these awful feelings and the pain and doubt and worry and wonder, and just create my own life. They give me the power, so what is stopping me? Am I writing my own story, autopilot style, just letting what I do get written down on paper, I just need to grab up the pen or press stop? Or is there another force? Is my conscience that much stronger than I think or am I merely a mortal little nobody with a lot of moxie and a strong imagination and quick fingers but not enough knowing and power in her little mind… I have all the power, I just need to possess it, and I am afraid of the consequences, look where it got me now. I have to tell them all, and I am scared, I am not scared because I don't have to tell anyone, and they will understand when I do, I am out typing my computer and the feeling that is created by beating the machine is wonderful, even though it thinks that it can outsmart me by correcting everything I say wrong because it is so smart and I am but a monkey poking at a termite hill with a stick but oh yes I am the one controlling you for once so just accept me and deal with my presence. He is busy, and I am here but I am gone.