Sometimes

5:23 am in the morning, I was tossing and turning in my bed. I was so tired but I couldn't go to sleep! I had a migraine and a tummy ache and yet my insomnia was kicking in. My fingers were itching to write something. So I pulled out my big blue notebook and wrote something for the story I'm working on.
I know it's bad, and needs editing, but it shall do for now. Here it is:

[pssst! in case you didn't read the one I posted before, go here]



Sometimes I feel trapped by what others expect of me. Every move I make has to add up to the carefully painted characters I have fabricated; a different me for every different person I meet.

It might sound complicated, but it is actually a matter of simple mathematics. Here's how you do it: analyze the person you want to impress, add all the parts that will make you desirable to them, subtract all the parts that don't, and voilà – there you have it.

But it is also a matter of simple chemistry, and - just like in chemistry - some equations are reversible. You think you're only heading in one direction: the end products.
Little do you know that another reaction is simultaneously taking place, quietly simmering in your insides, turning your end products back into their original reactants, until you reach a point of equilibrium.

But to every rule, there is an exception.

And, surprise surprise, that little exception is me.

Because every night when I lay on my bed, waiting for sleep to creep up on me, that equilibrium is gone, and I am stuck with nothing but the lies I have told, the ugliness, the emptiness - the original reactants, with none of the fascinating chemistry that created the desirable "me."

I tell myself,

There are so many people right now in my life, and they're all very different.
They all bring out different sides of me.

I tell myself,

I am not being hypocritical; I am not 32-faced – This is just human nature.
Different people have different opinions, different personalities, and different ways of accepting things. And so I expose different parts of me and keep others somewhere close to my heart for later use.

I am not lying to anyone.

My heart still feeds on those precious secrets that I haven't told anyone of, and that's why I keep them there.

Once they are gone, I am exposed, raw, unmasked – and I don't think that what I am at the core is all that pretty.
I am not sure if something still exists under all these layers of personalities I've created.
Once they are gone, I have nothing.
Once they are gone, I am nothing.

When I told you that my heart feeds on my secrets, I was only telling you half the truth.
My secrets feed on my heart, too.

The more I keep to myself, the more alive I feel.
But also, sadly, ironically – the less alive I am.

Maybe I am not lying to anyone.
But I am lying to myself - if I still classify as a human being anyway.

Because no, it is not human nature to have two MSN conversations at the same time and feel like I'm two people at once; trying to live up to the separate images I've created of myself.

Some people see me exactly how I want to be seen: Funny, clever, social, maybe even okay-looking.

And some people see me exactly how I don't want to be seen: jealous or arrogant, a loser or a freak, a misfit or a conformist.

But in the end – Everybody sees me.

So why can't I see myself?

***

I slowly drift awake, and I don't know where I am, or who I am. My view is fuzzy, and painfully, blindingly white.

Am I dead?

But there is a dull, throbbing pain in my head, and somehow it is hard to believe I am lucky enough to be that.

Pictures begin to fill my head: a woman grabbing me by my hair, a woman kicking me, a woman smiling coldly at me, and a little, still, blue-faced girl.

That woman is my mother, I realize.
That girl is my little sister – or was, because she is no longer with us. She is in a better place, I've been told. Why can't we trade places?

I am Laila.

Except I don't feel like Laila at the moment. But then again – when have I? Will I ever?

I don't know who I am.
Or what I am.
Except stuck.
Stuck in this drugged body on a hospital bed.
A body that doesn't feel like my own.
A body that doesn't belong to me, and a body that I don't belong to.

Maybe because I don't want to.

Who is Laila? Where has she gone? Why has she left me behind?

All of a sudden, I am filled with rage.
Rage at myself.

Rage at my mother.
Rage at the God that gave me a life when I don't recall ever asking for one; then tells me that I can't take it way, nor give it back.

No refunds.
Especially when the currency you've exchanged with is grief.

------





So what do you think?
Tell me how I can make it better, please!






%

Story

I've a stomachache. I think I have food poisoning. 3 weeks of Burger King and McDonald's for lunch can do that to a person....

Anyway. Here is something that I wrote a couple of months ago - An excerpt from a future novel (possibly?)





She approaches me, and I see it in her eyes. I see it etched into the creases in her forehead and in the faint lines around her eyes. I sense its charge in the room. Perhaps I can even smell its formidable odor in the air..

Her malice. It’s all-consuming.
I won’t be getting off easy tonight.


She grabs a fistful of my hair and throws me to the ground. I land on my back, winded. She lifts her foot and stomps at me, kicks me. I cower beneath her, folding my arms over my head and curling my body into a protective ball.
I can’t see her, and I wonder for a second whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I try to take a look from behind my forearms, but she kicks me again, and I howl in pain. I feel myself unfurl as I writher around the floor. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, what to expect – what she expects.

Nothing seems real. Everything ceases to exist. Everything, except for the continuous blows and relentless pain: in my stomach, in my right side, in my shoulder, in my heart.

She yanks my hair again and pulls hard, forcing me to stand up. I bite my lower lip to keep myself from screaming. She pulls at my necklace with her free hand, and the chain cuts into the back of my neck. Something trickles down my back, and I can’t, for the life of me, determine whether it’s blood, or simply fear. She finally pulls hard enough for the chain to give way: it breaks, and the beads fall to the floor and scatter, one by one.


She suddenly lets go of my hair and I look at her face, scrunched up in anger, her features almost distorted. Her breathing is heavy, and she is simply standing there, inches away from me. I look around wildly, desperate for an escape.
I want to get out of here.

I want to slam the door behind me and run until I am several streets away from what is supposed to be my "home." I want to keep on running until the only thing I'd hear would be the pounding of my heart in my chest and my feet on the pavement, instead of the echoes of a thousand questions running through my head.

Why is she doing this?

Why is the woman who is supposed to protect me from everything – from monsters and ghosts, from strangers, from bad news and bad people... from a broken heart.. why is she giving me everything to fear?

What did I do to make my own mother hate the sight of me?

I’m suddenly struck with a feeling of emptiness. I imagine a black, endless whirlpool inside me. I feel it sucking all the hope left in me and trapping it in its center.

A question interrupts my thoughts, like a bubble breaking into the surface of peculiarly calm water.

Why am I fighting this?
What am I fighting for?
Maybe I should just let it be…

My mother takes a step towards me, and I snap out of my reverie. She smells the same as I’ve always remembered; of apples, and what I've always imagined the inside of a cloud would smell like – something sweet and indistinctive.
How can a smell so familiar bring fear... when it once brought unconditional comfort?

I take a step back instinctively, realizing too late the mistake I’ve made..
“Do you honestly think you can run away from me?” she sneers.
She raises her hand and I crouch down, my arms raised over my head.
My mother lets out a scream of fury.
“Keep.. your hands.. down,” she says through gritted teeth.
I pull them down slowly and realize that I am trembling all over. I back up into a corner, whimpering. My mother swipes at me, and I immediately fold my arms over my head again. Outraged, she bends down and yanks my arms away; then grabs my hair. She pulls it so hard, and I find myself wondering whether a scalp can possibly be ripped off someone’s head. I scratch and pull desperately at her arms but realize I am only making it worse.

My mother shakes me violently, pulling me by my hair from side to side, kicking me relentlessly in between.
I feel like a rag doll being beaten into pulp.
Worthless pulp.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am.

She stops and releases my hair. I look around me, dazed.
Is it over?

Dark and fuzzy on the floor things catch my eye. With sickened horror, I realize that they are clumps of my hair.
“How can you call yourself a mother?” I ask, intending to scream, but my voice is merely a hoarse whisper.

Tears streak my cheeks, hot and scalding. A painful lump rises in my throat, and I swallow intensely, desperate to rid myself of any additional source of pain. I feel sore all over, almost to the point of numbness.

My mother stands up, a cold smile playing on her lips. She walks towards my musical keyboard and unplugs the voltage converter. She walks slowly back in my direction.
A chill runs down my back, and I am paralyzed with fear. I scramble to get up but fail to do so. I back up as far as I can go.

She wouldn’t… No, she wouldn’t…
She’s too close for comfort now. My heart beats wildly in my chest, threatening to explode.
She can’t…
“Please…” I beg. “Mama… please. No… please…”
She raises the adaptor over her head. I press up against the wall. There is no doubt left in my brain concerning what she intends to do. I look at her face, but it is wiped blank of even her customary mocking smile.
I close my eyes, just in time for pain beyond anything I have ever experienced to come crashing down on my head, jolting all my nerves, extending to every molecule in my body.

One last question - one last bubble - makes its way to my mind, as much as I try to suppress it.
If a life is virtually empty, is it still a life?
Or, more importantly, one worth living?

And then… surrounding me from all directions: a friend, for once.. offering me peace and serenity, instead of the usual uncertainty.........
Darkness.