Stephanie Jones on: Feelings and Free Writing

If I were in the states, I would cut.

Here's my free write time.

I was in the 8th grade and standing in my dirty gym clothes. I hated school. I hated gym. It all sucked, and it was only a single month into the year. Thank god that gym was the last class of the day.

We were doing pair gymnastics this week, and oh what the irony? My best friend and I were fighting. Obviously we didn't want anything to do with each other, so we were forced to choose less worthy partners. She got the class bully named Sandra, but it was me who had the worse luck. This year we had a new boy named Brenden who, for some reason, just didn't fit into anybody's groups. I swore I had the worst luck out of any girl in the entire school.

I sat next to him, but made sure I had plenty of room between the two of us. The first exercise was to press our feet together and pull each other by pulling on each other's hands. We were forced to lace fingers. His hands were relatively soft and nice and his grip was strong. I stared at him hands, then looked into his eyes. His was looking intensively at me.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." I said, releasing my grip from his, and letting him fall to the floor.

It went on for the next two days, but I noticed he wasn't in school on Thursday. Oh well, guess I'll have to sit today out!

He wasn't in school on Friday either, but that's when Mrs. Rhodeau called me over at the beginning of class to talk to me.

"I suppose you might be wondering why Brenden is here. He seems to be your friend."

I was tempted to say that I really didn't give a shit, that I only talk to him because I have to, and that I wouldn't be his friend even if my life depended on it. I kept my mouth shut.

"Brenden's mother died on Wednesday night in a car accident."

I couldn't hear anymore. I put a hand to my cheek and I noticed it was soaked with tears. I asked to be excused. I ran to the girls locker room and cried for the rest of the hour, and on the bus, and even walking home.

Why in hell is this boy and his dead mother effecting me this way?

I didn't eat dinner that night, and I was miserable for the rest of the weekend.

On Monday, Brenden was there. His eyes were cast downward, like he couldn't look at me. I lifted his head up with my finger, and began to speak.

"I know that apologizing won't take back all the shitty things I said to you, but I'm gonna try." I said, getting choked up.

He thanked me and said that all he wanted was to have a friend.

When we intertwined our fingers to start the gymnasics, I didn't dread it. His grip was still strong and it made me feel that he still had strength inside.

I kept thinking about how tight his fingers would have been around his father's hands the night his mother died.

I'm a morbid writer, and I apologize for any mistakes or bad grammer, etc, but I really felt the need to write and get some emotion out. If you enjoyed it, good for you.