the art of being troubled || clouis

1 || biting the hand that feeds

06 APRIL 2003

   You know that pulsating rush of adrenaline you get when you do something you're not supposed to be doing? It's like you've suddenly got arrhythmia. Your pores start oozing sweat, you start to get a little hot, and your clothes stick to your skin. You become hyperaware of every little thing going on around you and you thrive on that feeling for as long as your body can produce it. That's adrenaline. And that's how Clementine felt.

   Her fingers slid into the gap between her bedroom window and the windowsill. She pulled it up as quietly as she could before she manoeuvred her body to climb in. Sneaking out may have been the hard part, but with Lee's light sleeping, sneaking back in was infinitely harder.

   When it came to goodbyes, Clementine couldn't say she was much of a fan. You'd be lucky to even get a hello out of her in the first place. As expected throughout the vastity of life, finding a connection with someone is one of the biggest struggles you face. When you get to school, you soon realize that no one gives two shits about what you have to say or what goes on in your head. So you keep your mouth shut. But God forbid you keep your mouth shut in a place where mindless kids love to show you just how loud they are. No one talks to you, but when they do, they don't stop. People either use you as their journal or their punching bag – an object of their own desires. Billy knocks your books out of your hands and calls you a weirdo because you won't look anyone in the eye. Samantha vents about how irrational her mom is while you're trying to study in homeroom. Just sitting there makes you realize that ultimately, no one knew what the hell they were talking about, or why. People only focused on what was happening to them, not to the other humans around them. What they lacked to understand was that everyone had just as complex mental function as them. Instead, they considered you a background character to their rich lives. So, Clementine did the one thing she knew how to do from the very beginning – she stuck to her guns and she shut the world out. Trying to make friends and being walked all over was a thing of the past, she became the total antithesis of what a model human being was. Whether you're behaving how you want to behave or you're conforming to the social hierarchy like a mindless zombie, one ever-damning trait will always be present: people's perception of you. Clementine realized that people liked to paint their own picture of her, whether she was minding her business or not. So, what was the point in trying to be likeable if you weren't going to be liked anyway? Disappoint people, because that's what you're good at. That's what she was good at.

   Clementine's breathing hitched as her bedroom light switched on. With only one leg through the window, Lee had caught her red-handed. Her widened eyes settled on his cross-armed, defeated figure. Her heart sank a little before she inevitably broke eye contact with her foster father, resting her expression.

   "You can't be doing this anymore, Clementine," he told her, his voice low and fatigued. "Why're you doing this?"

   Clementine sighed quietly and pulled the remainder of her body into the room.

   "I just wanted to see Naomi before I leave–"

   "Seeing people this late at night is what got you in trouble in the damn first place... Doin' all of this smoking an-and sneaking around – it ain't good for you, Clem," his voice hardened with concern.

   "Me? Smoke?" she placed her hand over her chest, forcibly dumbfounded. Lee's worrisome glance morphed into a glare.

   "You make things harder for yourself, Clem. Harder for us. You think I want to send you to some out of state boarding school like you're some wild child? Some burnout?" he frustratingly threw about his hands, stepping towards her.