Perfectly Imperfect

Veintiocho: Wholsome Scowls

I'm sitting on a rock on the lake's floor, half my body submerged in water, watching the people around me laugh and have fun, like a loser. I discovered swimming with multiple fractured bones wasn't the best of ideas, so I settled for sitting on a rock.

At least it's a comfy rock.

No, it's not.

I've gotten used to the water, and it's actually protecting the parts of my body it's touching from the cold air.

So, at least I'm comfortable.

No, I'm not.

My everything hurts.

But that's okay! Nothing I haven't dealt with before.

I watched on as my f-friends — friends — jumped off rocks and splashed around, having fun, looking like they had done it with each other a thousand times. Even though, we had only made this makeshift agreement to be friends a few mere days ago. And, a few days before that, we were at each other's throats. Or, two of them were at mine, and they were just barely refraining from being at each other's.

It still feels weird to call them that. Friends. Even though, we took up the roles rather quickly, everything feels so fresh and. . . Almost not real. Not that they're not genuine or real, but that it feels like it could all disappear in the blink of an eye.

It could all just go back to the way it was.

I know we haven't been this way for long, but. . .

I looked down at my shirt. It reminded me of the friends I had at my old school.

They smiled a lot, laughed a lot, talked a lot.

But it was all. . . fake.

The smiles, the laughs. All of it.

They did it to fit in, not because they actually meant it. They talked about people behind their backs, and I have NO doubt they talked about me behind mine too. Not because I was despised at that school, like I am at this one, but because, that's just how things were there. It was the same at the school before that, and before that, and before that.

And I'm ashamed, but not unwilling, to say, I smiled that fake smile along with them. Laughed that fake laugh with them. Talked that talk with them. Being me, wasn't getting me anywhere.

My strange sense of humor and confidence drove people away. So, I stopped having either. I was fake with them.

. . . For a while.

Then I filled one of my "closest friend's" (member of list of people I secretly hate) locker with glitter and rode my motorcycle through the middle of a football game. Stepping out of line in the social hierarchy.

Both got me detention, and a not so great night at home, but hey, at least they knew what I was about at that school. I did it to make a point. I think it succeeded in doing so. No one expected me to be anything other than me.

The glory was short lived though, because then, I moved, AGAIN, to this death trap of a child prison. Where, the kids don't even bother to do their shade throwing behind your back. They'd prefer to make it rather obvious, actually.

Luckily enough though, some people — people like me — would prefer that, so that they can get in an adequate comeback to their opposer.

There's no fake smiles. Just real, wholesome scowls.

Especially, when it comes to my little band of insurgents. You can be sure, if they manage to crack a smile — not the clown, but the other two — and not the kind that makes your skin crawl because of how evil it is, it's not because they're trying to please anyone else.