Masks To Wear
folder
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
801
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
801
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Masks To Wear
Author: Hiriyou
Description: Uhh, yeah. Third in my \"Broken Children Arc.\" This just has to do with a perfect person who\'s not so perfect. Trust me people, I don\'t know where any of these came from. But here\'s another one.
Masks To Wear
I stare at the counselor and smile sugary sweet. She eats it up like an unaware babe. Counselors like her make me sick. With all of their half-baked \'analyses\' and \'helpful advice.\' I wish I could retch.
The years have taught me well, though. And I can sit here staring at her through this mask I use for people like her. As long as they don\'t know it\'s a mask, they won\'t care. To them I just look like another teen perfection incarnate. Straight A\'s, yearbook editor, menagerie of groupie friends, captain of the swim team, and by my junior year I\'ve already got double the required amount for community service hours.
\"How do you do it?\" random faces will as. I want to snap back to them, \"Easily. Fear is a great motivator.\" But I don\'t. I just shrug at them and smile my patented grin.
This is just my usual appointment to know what my new schedule will be. I have to do it. I wouldn\'t if I didn\'t. Counselors and psychologists, they all want to get in your head. But who wants people tinkering around in your thoughts? Not me. So I\'ll let them have the illusion that I\'m an open book. And in a way, I am.
I don\'t care about my life. It\'s been nothing short of perfect. A perfect Hell. Working father, house maker mother, football star older brother, and a little sister in third grade. We\'ve never had everything, but way more than we needed. And there\'s never been a single raised voice among our family. All of my friends are envious... I despise them for their envy. I want chaos in my life just like theirs. I *want* something to go cry off to a psychologist. Not that I would cry, but you get the idea. But there\'s nothing. So as I said, my life is an open book for anyone who wants to read it.
It\'s my thoughts you\'re not allowed to know. I keep them hidden behind the hundred masks I wear with different people. Nobody except my journal hears those thoughts. And even some thoughts my journal isn\'t privilege to. They\'re the thoughts I have about the blood dripping down from Lisa\'s cut the other day. About how I wanted to gash open that tiny cut and slam one of her herione syringes into it. And then sew it back up. Or when I watch the little kids in the park playing. I imagine how it would feel to rip a machine gun\'s rounds through them. I\'ve even thought up the perfect note the bullets would produce as they ricocheted off of the playthings.
If I told the chattering woman in front of me that I wished I could drag my machete knife (one of the many my parents don\'t know about) across her chest and just kind of draw different things into her pale cream flesh... she would most likely tell me to get help. Because she wouldn\'t understand. People like her never do.
So I don\'t say anything. And when she asks me how I\'m doing and how I feel, I ask her how would any other person in my life feel? Like the ignorant sheep she is, she only laughs jovially and dismisses me.
I leave the room, closing the door behind me. The counselor is still smiling and now I smile for real. All these naive fools don\'t understand... but really, it\'s their loss.
Description: Uhh, yeah. Third in my \"Broken Children Arc.\" This just has to do with a perfect person who\'s not so perfect. Trust me people, I don\'t know where any of these came from. But here\'s another one.
Masks To Wear
I stare at the counselor and smile sugary sweet. She eats it up like an unaware babe. Counselors like her make me sick. With all of their half-baked \'analyses\' and \'helpful advice.\' I wish I could retch.
The years have taught me well, though. And I can sit here staring at her through this mask I use for people like her. As long as they don\'t know it\'s a mask, they won\'t care. To them I just look like another teen perfection incarnate. Straight A\'s, yearbook editor, menagerie of groupie friends, captain of the swim team, and by my junior year I\'ve already got double the required amount for community service hours.
\"How do you do it?\" random faces will as. I want to snap back to them, \"Easily. Fear is a great motivator.\" But I don\'t. I just shrug at them and smile my patented grin.
This is just my usual appointment to know what my new schedule will be. I have to do it. I wouldn\'t if I didn\'t. Counselors and psychologists, they all want to get in your head. But who wants people tinkering around in your thoughts? Not me. So I\'ll let them have the illusion that I\'m an open book. And in a way, I am.
I don\'t care about my life. It\'s been nothing short of perfect. A perfect Hell. Working father, house maker mother, football star older brother, and a little sister in third grade. We\'ve never had everything, but way more than we needed. And there\'s never been a single raised voice among our family. All of my friends are envious... I despise them for their envy. I want chaos in my life just like theirs. I *want* something to go cry off to a psychologist. Not that I would cry, but you get the idea. But there\'s nothing. So as I said, my life is an open book for anyone who wants to read it.
It\'s my thoughts you\'re not allowed to know. I keep them hidden behind the hundred masks I wear with different people. Nobody except my journal hears those thoughts. And even some thoughts my journal isn\'t privilege to. They\'re the thoughts I have about the blood dripping down from Lisa\'s cut the other day. About how I wanted to gash open that tiny cut and slam one of her herione syringes into it. And then sew it back up. Or when I watch the little kids in the park playing. I imagine how it would feel to rip a machine gun\'s rounds through them. I\'ve even thought up the perfect note the bullets would produce as they ricocheted off of the playthings.
If I told the chattering woman in front of me that I wished I could drag my machete knife (one of the many my parents don\'t know about) across her chest and just kind of draw different things into her pale cream flesh... she would most likely tell me to get help. Because she wouldn\'t understand. People like her never do.
So I don\'t say anything. And when she asks me how I\'m doing and how I feel, I ask her how would any other person in my life feel? Like the ignorant sheep she is, she only laughs jovially and dismisses me.
I leave the room, closing the door behind me. The counselor is still smiling and now I smile for real. All these naive fools don\'t understand... but really, it\'s their loss.