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Chapter 1
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What do you do when a long time bully who tortures you, insults you, and sexually harass you from the time you met at seven years of age till your eighteenth year cries in front of you?
Answer:
I have no idea.
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“Clair Richards!” shrieked a voice.
Yup, that's my name.
You know, I never think of myself as a talking kind of person, even a listening kind of person for that matter. I just like to be on my own world where I can be by myself. No troubles, no worries. Even since I was small, I tended to not notice anyone but myself. If I was to even witness a crime scene and be put face to face with a robber I wouldn't even be able to describe his face a while later. Not because I was scared to death by the situation, but because the only thing I'd remember was that there was a robber. I wouldn't even remember the robber's clothes if you would ask me. Most of the times though, I would remember people if I saw them again.
I got lost in malls sometimes and because I couldn't describe what my mother's face looked like to the security or even what she wore at that time, I would always be left alone until she would find me myself. I wouldn't be able to describe her because I just couldn't remember what she looked like. It's not like I could always forget, if someone were to show me a face that I already knew, I would recognize them again.
I don't know if I was an introvert or something else. I don't like social contacts, but that wasn't because I was always occupied with my own thoughts. The problem was, when I think in my head, I never have any thoughts. Except when I start to take interest in something, I wouldn't have anything in my head. Good thing that I even have any interests in this world. Nobody seemed to have this kind of problem.
When I start to think in my head I find out that I haven't got anything to think about. I would then just stare at space not knowing what to do. If somebody ever interrupted me in any of my trances I'd start to get irritated, but just keeps on a blank expression. I would just ignore them till they would leave.
My looks never really helped me with being alone. I always get noticed because of it. When I was little, I had dark curly brown hair that seemed to spill through my shoulders and puppy dog eyes that shone like green emeralds. Though I seemed to start wearing boy’s clothes after being uncomfortable with wearing a dress. Even with that my mom would always show me off to other people.
I hated it.
A crowd would always surround me. I really didn't like the part that they made me like an attraction. A lot of people would touch me and chatter while they pet my hair. Some would even pinch my cheeks and other parts of my body and most of times, or should I say always, they really hurt. But the only thing that I really hated more was the stares.
They would stare at me with those eyes. Strange kind of eyes, mostly I don't see peoples faces, so to me, they were like ugly beings who wanted something they wanted but couldn't have. Those were the some of the things I noticed back then.
One day, I couldn't bare those stares anymore. So I stood there in front of the mirror and scissors in hand. I didn't really know if my plastic scissors would do so I secretly took my mother's scissors from her sewing kit.
I looked at myself noting all of my features. There looking back at me was myself. I was a bit pale, not that I wasn't pale from the start, much more paler than usual. My eyes, those emerald green eyes showing uncertainty. Then there was my beautiful dark hair. Those were the only thing that I liked about myself; those curly brown locks. I didn't really know if I could do this. Throwing away my life so I wouldn't be able to find those kinds of eyes staring back at me. I reached out my right hand and with trembling fingers I took the scissors at my neck and closed my eyes tightly.
Then the slashing began.
Slash!
Slash!
Slash!
Until there was no more.
A drop of something hit the carpet on the floor. Then another came. Now there was two splotches that dropped on the carpet. I didn't really know if I could fix that later. Those crimson spots, now a stain, becoming another chore for me to do. I let go of the scissors; now falling near my feet. There was pain but not as much as the numbness going through me.
You really shouldn't cut your hair with trembling fingers.
Slowly, I opened my eyes to the horror I set myself in. Staring back at me was a girl with a ragged looking haircut. Surely if I didn't have those puppy dog eyes and wear some boys clothes I'd look like a boy. I felt my hair through my right hand trying to ruffle it some more. Then I felt a sting.
There, on my other hand, I held my life. The only thing that looked so much like chocolate, the trunks of trees, and dry leaves that separate from them once the seasons change to Fall. Those curls that everyone was very fond of. Instead of spilling trough my shoulders like they should be, they were now bloodied and falling through my injured hand to floor and the carpet. The beautiful hair that fell like those leaves in Fall; not growing back until another time came. The only difference between those two is: my hair won’t grow back.
I won’t let them grow back.
“Clair Richards!” a voice shrieked.
The door to my room was open, I had not noticed someone has come in through the door; witnessing the scene I have done. There, outside my door, stood my mother. Shock was clearly evident in her face. We stood there not moving until my mother recovered from her shock. After a brief gasp anger took the place of shock on my mother’s face.
"What are you doing?" she shouted.
With my hair like this, dress like a boy - which isn't much of a problem 'cause I like to do that - and maybe if I always put my head down so nobody could see these eyes of mine, everybody wouldn't stare at me anymore. Nobody would notice me.
And nobody did.
But that was what I thought.
And I was always wrong.
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