I decided to pull out some of the stuff I wrote in high school, and see if any of it was worthwhile. I’ll post the first piece for you, and let you decided. I have done my best to edit as much of the teenage angst out of it, but the damn shite won’t come out. It certainly did make me laugh though.
Pretending in the Hallway.
I can see him at the end of the hallway. I don’t have to see his face to know its him. The sway of his silhouette as he struts and swaggers in my direction, gives me a clue to his identity.
I am standing there, waiting for the elevator, which has gotten lost on its way, and pretend he is not there. I stare at the paperwork I cradle in my arms, as though I am deep in thought. I pretend I am working, when I am not. I can feel his eyes on me as he silently passes me. I want to look up at him and see if he says anything to me, if he dares to say anything to me as he walks by me, but I don’t. I fear that if I do look up, he won’t say anything, I won’t be able to avoid the verbal vomit I could already feel rising in my throat. The temptation to block his path and scream : ‘I’m sorry! Please forgive me.’ is so great.
I stay to my spot, waiting for the lost elevator, staring at the papers, pretending to work when I’m not.
Its funny how much people pretend; he and I used to be friends. We knew things about each other that others didn’t. We had secrets, but none of that matters anymore. We pretend not to know each other’s names now. I pretended that he was every person who had hurt me. I pretended that he was every person who had seduced me. I seduced him like every one else had seduced me. I seduced him like life had seduced me. I wish I could pretend that night never happened, but my mind won’t let that happen. Sometimes I wish I could turn that anger and guilt I feel towards myself and turn it against him. But I can’t. I wish I could pull a gun out of my back pocket and watch the shocked look on his face as the bullet plunges into his chest. But I can’t. I wish I could slit his throat and watch his face turn the colour of ash as his blood spills down his front, washing away any of my feelings away with it, but I know that won’t make the guilt go away that easily.
There is nothing I can do to make this better. And so, I stare at the papers, and pretend I am fine.