Amethyst: A Collection Of Short Stories

The life of Samantha Johnson

I lay in bed, my cheeks pressed against my pillow, my eyes closed.

The day is bright, I can feel it. But, I do not check. I lay, with my eyes shut, keeping the tears at bay. However, they slip out, droplets sliding down the side of my face and hitting the pillow with a soft thud.

My teddy bear is with me, but she does nothing to comfort me. Her back is turned away from me, even she doesn't want me, I think to myself. I got her because I'd seen kids with theirs on airplanes, in cars, in the market. So, I got one too.

I hear shuffling outside my door. 

I stay still.

The person goes away.

I should be relieved because that is what I want, no? But I feel the blanket of sadness wrapped around my body thicken. A tear hits the stained pillow. 

I am pathetic.

I really am. 

In the movies, they would tell me to talk to someone: a friend, a family member, a therapist…?

Friends? Did I really have those? I ate with the girls at lunch. Their laughter would echo in the dining hall, their face filled with pure happiness. They would talk to one another, converse so easily that I often found myself thinking that I had a problem. Maybe I did. But, I'd laugh with them, my face carved in a smile. Though not as joyous or as real as theirs, it was a smile.

Family members. Who could I tell? What could I tell? What is there to say to them? Other than the fact that their insensitive comments got to me.  The occasional 'oh, that picture makes you fat' or the 'why so many spots on your face?’ or 'you should play more sports! You look weak'.

Weak.

I am weak.

I face the ceiling. My chest rises and falls in steady rhythms. The clock on my wall ticks, the sound repetitive. Tick
      tock
              tick
                    tock.
It's almost like it's mocking me. It sees me and laughs in clock language because I cry. 

Why am I crying? I ask myself.

There was no reason.

None.

I crack my brain for the reason of this sadness. But nothing comes up. My life these past months has been the same. I wake up, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, dress up, brush my hair, hop on the bus and go to school. In school, time passes like a blur. It feels like I watch my body from afar, disconnected and dazed. And then, I go home. The cycle repeats itself, over and over and over.

Another tear falls.

That is the reason, I tell myself. 

I have no life. It's stale, like old bread. It's boring like history. It's monochromatic. 

I see girls on social media, they hang out without me. They have picnics, go to the beach, dance, sing with each other but I'm never there. I see their pretty  faces in my mind. But, there is one that stands out. Cora. She is beautiful, her hair like golden locks, eyes like the sky on a bright day, skin like a baby's bottom. (I wouldn't know but I hear that it's a common saying.) 

And often, way too often, I stare at her. I want to be her. I want to be bubbly, I want to throw my head back and laugh without worrying about my rabbit teeth in braces. I want to talk to someone with so much life bursting through me that they cannot resist me. I want to walk the way she does; head high with a smile on my face. I want to answer questions in class with the confidence and accuracy she has.

Instead, on a Saturday morning, I lie in bed with my hair matted and my eyelids heavy. I stay with my dirty pajamas, my overgrown nails, my oily face, and my hairy legs. Even though I should stand up to get breakfast, my muscles don’t move. 

The tears do not fall again.

Probably because the tear tank is empty, I say to myself. I chuckle inwardly. 

I reach out with long slender fingers and grab my teddy bear. Even as I hug her against my chest, I feel the same. No, I feel worse. I let go of the object and hug myself.

The life of Samantha Johnson, I say to myself.

I bury my face in my pillow.

Even my name is stale.