Aesthete

Chapter 5.

I grinned goofily, looking at the light-brown haired girl as she explained why her favorite song meant so much to her.

I wasn't expecting to laugh and smile so carelessly when I met her. My older sister told me that middle school was a big deal so I couldn't screw it up by being how I was in fourth and fifth grade.

Relaxing on the swing set and listening to Alina was already a sure method that I would be happy again.

Spending time with her throughout the school day and discussing random topics until boredom fell over us was what happened the first week.

Then, the rumors flooded in. The classmates that stemmed from the same elementary school as me told others that I was a weird, creepy girl who spent her time watching others and speaking oddly.

That was true to an extent. I spoke differently as a result of the abuse I endured when I was nine. It left me with a stutter and a speech issue that left my sentences rushed with words and phrases misplaced.

I didn't mean to watch others in a creepy way; I had just wanted to see what it was like to try and act normal as a method of recuperating. After studying my classmates, I'd go to the obscure corner of the library, plucking books to read as I practiced my mannerisms and speech to try and make friends when the opportunity presented itself.

This label worsened when anything went wrong in my classroom. If papers were cluttered or anything went missing, I became the scapegoat. I accepted the blame, hoping my peers would see me as someone worth talking to if I covered for them.

I was wrong.

Harsh words turned into physical attacks. I thought I could leave it behind when I started sixth grade; but I. Was. Wrong.

Alina stopped coming with me to the swings. She would ignore my offers to exercise in gym together and eventually, I was alone once again.

I thought things would be different. 6th and 7th grade passed with the usual taunts and bruises while I only confided in Isabella. She would pat my shoulder sympathetically, saying I needed to talk to someone, but how could I? It wouldn't change the image they had of me.

I had accepted my internal defeat and would flee to the library time after time to solidify my speech skills. I remembered how my mother offered speech therapy but I dismissed the idea. I was too ashamed, it seemed as if I had been a toy that was already broken down, everything I went through only made me that much more discarded and unworthy.

The intensity of the bullying grew, bruises turned to bleeds, sprains, and scars littered throughout my skin. I knew something needed to be said, but my smile drifted along with words spoken to others. How do I come forward with the truth? I remembered the heartbreak I placed on my mother's shoulders when I told her about her ex-boyfriend.

"It's like a weight lifted off my chest," I said quietly, when I finally told her the truth of what happened the summer before, seeking a solution to the storm that raged in my mind.

"And I feel like I got a weight thrown on mine." She replied, a lost look in her eyes. From then on, I decided I wouldn't be a burden anymore. It wasn't worth the expression she donned.

I was recalling that memory in the same corner of the library, a Dr. Seuss book in hand as I practiced on speaking at a normal speed without words blurring together.

Then, two sets of arms wrapped around mine, yanking me upwards.

Two boys, one pale and wide while the other was lean and tanned hovered over me with malicious countenances.