"Life"

“I am convinced that it’s meaningless.”

I stated those six words simply. I realized that those six words summed up my entire life.

“Exactly how do you find math meaningless?”

You are upset that I have interrupted your oh-so-important class with this absurd statement.

“Not math. Math is important to succeeding in life… which is meaningless.”

You don’t know how to react to this other than picking up the book I threw on the floor in a random fit of rage brought on when you called on me to answer a question you know I didn’t know the answer to, just to embarrass me, and continued what the lesson like nothing had happened.

The bell rang.

“Quinn, do you mind staying after class?”

Of course I mind, not that it matters. You’re going to yell at me, then give me detention. I stay behind anyway.

You write something down. I assume it’s an office referral. It only says :

Mary Scott

Room #206



“She’s the school counselor. If you feel you need to talk go to her. It’s what she’s there for.”

You give me a sympathetic look. I walk… no, shuffle to my next class.



“Life” at Home

You aren’t home yet. This is in no way unusual. You usually don’t get home until 8 o’clock.

By then I’m expected to have cleaned the house (meaning all of you’re messes) and have dinner on the table when you walk in the door.

Or else.

I do that and put the dinner in front of your grinning muzzle, then turn to go to my room.

You squeeze my hind. I keep walking, ignoring the silent language you and I speak. This upset you. You jump up and lumber after me. I try to run but you grab my shoulders and slap my, in a way as not to bruise my face. But enough to get your point across. Then you kiss me. When I don’t kiss back, like I never do, you get even more upset.

Against my will, we are going to what use to be yours and my mothers bedroom. To the bed where you and my mother use to sleep.

I didn’t cry. Tears where meaningless.









I took a shower, so hot I’m sure I was burned. The bathroom mirror was a liar. I’m actually not sad with bruises from the neck down. I’m very happy and living out my every dream. The mirror was a liar. I pretended my mother was still here. I pretended HE was not. But pretending only lasted so long.

I was going to have to wear a scarf. My neck was bruised.

This was in no way uncommon.





People don’t notice because all they see is the outside. My nice clothes, my nice face. They don’t suspect anything. But I was almost positive that if you ripped off my top layer of skin my real body would be revealed. And everyone would know the truth because it would practically be tattooed on my forehead:

I AM NOT WHO I SEEM

But that top layer of skin is there, like a Halloween mask.



As I walk the side of the road on my way to school, I consider throwing myself in front of the traffic. I would do it, and have no regrets. That im certin of. I want to so badly my palms are itching. But you’re watching me form wherever people go when they move on. You’re watching my every move and you would be disappointed in me if I did that. So, I keep walking. I don’t want to disappoint you.



You look at me… no. You look at my body. We are two different people. My body and I that is.

I look at you. Or, I look at your body, not you. I’m afraid I’m as guilty as everyone else when it comes to not seeing people. I’m sure when you were my age, you were something. But now that you were pushing 70, you looked the same as every other elderly person I’d come in contact with. Small, wrinkled, fragile.

“Quinn, I said open your book to page 392.”

“I lost it.” By lost I actually meant HE came home in a drunken rage to find me doing my homework and set the book on fire with his lighter, dropping it on my floor laughing, leaving me to put it out with my comforter.

But I leave this out of our conversation so you can’t possibly know so I shouldn’t be angry at you for lecturing me in front of the entire class about my low maturity level and my careless irresponsibility.

I shouldn’t  be angry with you. I am. The only sign I show is putting my head down on my desk.

Suddenly, my mother walks in the door. She yells at you, telling you is wasn’t my fault. Then she gives me my book that she found and kisses my forehead.

This is not real. I’m pretending again.

You tell me to lift my head up. I mumble obscene words but do it any way. You continue with your oh-so-important English lesson on things we will never need to know.

How do I know we will never need to know them? Because when HE comes home, I can’t start spouting information of predicate nominatives and make HIM go away. Make HIM stop. Make HIM leave me alone. That was real life, and in the grand scheme of things, predicate nominatives were useless. Meaningless.