JUST MY TYPE

HER

scaramouche took out the crumpled photograph, smoothening it out. "ahh, i shouldn't have been so rough with it..." he mumbled, tenderly caressing the photograph. it was a polaroid of the person he hates the most, and the person he used to hate the most. hah, how... ironic.

it was blurry, not well taken, but the feelings of the people captured in the frame of the camera were evident. a young girl, proudly holding up an art piece, and a taller female, smiling and putting an arm around her shoulder. the picture had been taken by him. young him, standing in front of the two and holding a camera when all he should have been holding were toys. 

that photograph had been hung up in the kindergarten for a few weeks. "the pride of the school," it had been labelled. everyone spoke of the jubilant smile of the young girl or the graceful grin of the older female. everyone gushed over the girl's talent and her teacher's expertise. people whispered in adoration about how the two looked so happy and almost as if they were flesh and blood. 

yet nobody talked of the photographer. him. how angry he had been when he was taking that photo, the way the teachers had smiled at him patronisingly to tell him he was a model student and he deserved to take the photo. as if he had earned it. 

why did he have to earn seeing his mother being all chummy with another child? if his mother had ever looked at him with such joy dancing in her eyes, he would have screamed in delight. 

but no. her eyes shone with amusement and all happy, disgusting positive emotions when she played the role of an art teacher for some random kid. it was revolting, infuriating. the photo had been blurry despite his perfect ability to take a perfect photograph. for one, his hands were shaky, due to him seething with anger. number two, he wanted to ruin everything those two had between them. ruin the relationship his mother had with anyone that was not him for it was unfair. 

it was after 3 months, that he had so desperately tried to pry them away, that he realised his efforts were futile. 

the world had been, was, is and will be an elaborate tapestry of lies and whatever his delusional self thought he had between his mother, was as good as the ashes of dead people. 

he recalled how he had searched online for how to get rid of someone in tears. it had said to write their name on a piece of paper 7 times, then fold it towards yourself and blow it out or something. he did not remember what the steps were exactly, but it did not matter. he had searched the whole kindergarten for that wretched girl's art piece, to see the shameful scrawl penned behind the painting. 

"[name]."

"[name]."

"[name]."

"[name]."

he had said it over and over again as if it were an omen, a chant, and he enjoyed how the name felt on his tongue. 

he cried the next day when the witchcraft did not work. 

yet now. how pathetic he was, being friends with the girl he had detested infinitely. he laughed at himself, mocking himself for the absurdity of it all. 

yet, he slipped the photograph into his wallet again, making sure the creases were smoothened out and tucked it into his pocket as if it were his most prized possession. 

perhaps it was.