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HEARTBEAT

HEARTBEAT

By RLMiera

KA-THUD. KA-THUD.
THAT'S MY HEART. I'M DYING.
I JUST TOOK ABOUT TWENTY PAINKILLERS, WHEN I WAS ONLY SUPPOSED TO TAKE TWO.
THERE ARE MANY REASONS WHY I TOOK TWENTY AND NOT JUST TWO.
THERE'S ALMOST TOO MANY TO MENTION.
BUT I WILL.
I'LL LIST THE REASONS RIGHT NOW.

I've never really had any friends. I've always been a really shy person; too shy, actually. I was always way too terrified to talk to anyone at school, smile at the girl you sit by on your first day that becomes your best friend.
No.
I never had any friends. That's why I hated going to school, but I never wanted to be at home, either, so I went anyways. I always pulled good grades. I never once received an F.
I always wondered what it would be like to actually have friends, or even one friend, but I was never brave enough to try it out. My yearbooks were always empty, my notebooks blank from any friends writing on the outside or random pages.
Every night I wished that I had friends. Every night I would lie awake and wonder what it would be like to have someone to share secrets with other than a journal. To have someone who actually talked back. Someone to give you a hug when you ran into problems in your life. Someone to laugh with and share private jokes with.
I often wished that someone, anyone, would come talk to me, but they never did. I just figured that nobody cared, but then again, I was used to nobody caring.
That's one of the main things that broke me.

KA-THUD...KA-THUD.
MY HEARTBEAT'S SLOWER NOW.
I SIGH AND LEAVE THE KITCHEN.
AS I WALK INTO THE LIVING ROOM, I LOOK AT OUR FAMILY PICTURE, THE PICTURE OF MY MOTHER AND I.
I NOTICE EXACTLY HOW BEAUTIFUL THE PICTURE IS, BUT NOTICE AT THE SAME TIME EXACTLY HOW FAKE IT IS.
AND MY HEART HURTS.

My dad left before I was even born. It was inevitable; after all, he had his whole life ahead of him. Full-ride scholarship to a great college for being the best high school quarterback in the state. He had just about everything going for him; his parents were rich. He was extraordinarily good-looking. Amazing athletic ability. He was of course popular. He was the envy of every guy in school, the prize for any girl who could achieve a chance.
Why he chose my mom, I have no clue. From what my mother had told me from the many times she used to tell me all her stories, she wasn't popular at all. No, she was very quiet, very shy. Hardly spoke to anyone. Not a lot of friends. But she was extraordinarily pretty. But no one ever seemed to notice.
Except my father. One night at a dance after a football game, she was getting ready to go to her best friend's house for a sleepover when she ran into him and he spilled punch all down the front of her favorite shirt; an oversized Stain'd T-shirt.
"Oh, I'm really sorry," he'd told her, not really sounding sorry at all, and turning to leave, but then turning back around for another look.
It was like a movie; they stared at each other for a minute, then my father said these simple words, "I love Stain'd."
"So do I," my mother replied, and was a little stunned that the most popular, best-looking boy around was actually talking to her.
"I actually have that same shirt," my father told her a little hesitantly. "We're all headed back to my house. You and your friends could come along if you want it. Or I could wash your shirt for you."
My mom always told me that one of her friends had poked her in the side to persuade her to go, and she had managed to say, "Sure."
So, they went over to his place, where a huge party went down, and my mother had her first drinks that would only be the beginning. That was also the night I was conceived.
My mom and my dad never talked after that. Other than the occasional smile in the hallway, and a wave in class, they didn't acknowledge each other.
My mom didn't even bother to tell him that she was pregnant when she found out. She never told me why she never did, and why she just let him find out on his own and come find her in a store when she was about five months along because she had far since dropped out of school and ask her, although her belly was very obviously round.
"Are you sure it's mine?" he'd asked her.
"Of course it's yours," she'd said, giving him a look.
He'd stood there dumbly, staring at her, then said bluntly, "That sucks," and walked off.
My mom was out of school at fifteen and had almost no place to go. She went ahead and had me, but she was sixteen at the time, and with me she was missing out on everything. While all of her friends were out partying and having a great time, she was stuck changing diapers and feeding me.
This made her bitter. I supposed another reason was the fact of where half of me came from. She of course hated my father. He worked hard to graduate early and leave to college; she never once heard from him again.
All of her lost years caught up to her, however. When I was about two, my mom began leaving me with babysitters to go out and party. To get her life back. There would sometimes be five days at a time where I wouldn't hear anything from her, and then she would show up looking a mess and it would be a slow car ride home, where she would then crash and sleep for hours.
When I was ten, she finally cut this act out. It was ridiculous, because she tried to be a good mother to me, but I was not fond of her at all, for more than one reason. After about three months of lame and failed attempts at being a mother, she got the picture and gave up, and went to school to be a CNA. Now she had an excuse to avoid me; work.
I looked almost nothing like her, so I figured that I must look like my dad. This was depressing, for every time I looked into the mirror, I would get a new image of him in my head.
Everything about my life was frustrating, but I found ways to keep myself entertained. I taught myself some gymnastics, played basketball in the back (with myself). I hung out on the computer and learned Spanish all by myself. I read and wrote constantly. I did lots of things, because it's pretty boring to stay by yourself pretty much 24/7. It got lonely, too. I rarely ever heard my name; Sydnee Marie.
Soon I began running away. Four, five, six times a year at the most. Usually, my mom came and looked for me herself, which I never understood. She found me every time except once, when I ran to the border. But that's another story.
Although it was hurtful and hard, I gradually learned to accept the fact that I was never going to have a real family. My father never cared, and he never would. It hurt more than anything else to realize that there would never be that person who would walk me down the aisle someday, who would try his best to help me with everything.
Until last Tuesday.

TO BE CONTINUED....

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About The Author
RLMiera
RLMiera
About This Story
Audience:
12+
Posted:
14 Feb, 2010
Type:
Inspirational
Words:
1,287
Favorites:
1
Views:
10,836

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