A Story That Deserves to be Forgotten

PART 1
WRITERS BLOCK.

I've always wanted a blog. An old friend of mine decided she wanted to be hip and cool, and then decided that she wanted to show that off by writing about it online and posting photos. I remember seeing her drafting it and thinking about how much better I could do. Right about that time I had to move to another school; I wonder if it ever took off. Often I see people do things and think I can do them better, it's my method of helping myself to feel better. Realistically, I am just not good at things which involve self-expression. I tell myself it's because I am too complex to be represented by a simple visual or aural design. I am weak. I am not strong enough to create something to express who I am or what I'm feeling because I am afraid someone will actually notice. Perhaps someone I have always wanted to be friends with, someone I have wanted to like me. Perhaps someone who may judge or laugh about the fact that I took a step out and according to their juvenile criteria it dubs me 'uncool'. This is not the worst; the worst would be someone who knows me. Someone who has seen me through all and believes that they could write a blog from my perspective themselves. I know two things for sure.

1. If they were to create this blog about me it would be so false and inaccurate that it could be classified as the most abstract of fictions.

2. If they were to create this inaccurate blog }about me I would laugh and comment on how accurate and brilliant it is.

I do not believe that I am the only one like this. Some people claim to be hard done by and misunderstood by even their closest friends or family just for attention. I am not writing this for attention. Like I explained, attention is my fear. I am doing this for myself. This is why this story is one that deserves to be forgotten. It may not reflect world reality, but this is my personal reality. This is my writers block, my insecurity, my lack of talents and my failure. Equally, this is my creativity, my triumph, my specialty and my success. You want a story? This is mine. I cannot write a better blog than my friend, I am hopelessly nothing. You cannot remember nothing, so here goes nothing:

I grew up in war (but didn't we all?). Fighting was my childhood, which was cut short by the arch enemy of most people; responsibility. Some manage to run away from their arch enemy, these are the irresponsible. I attempted, but like I said I am weak. I have mine living with me. I have no memory of my parents in the same room. I wish this was the war I experienced because it would have been nice to at least see some interaction between them, fighting included. On the doors of one of the toilets at school, someone has written a list of 10 reasons why their life is falling apart. There were a few petty things such as her crush rejected her and she misses her old friends, but one in particular made me laugh. "My parents are getting a divorce". Maybe I am an emotionless sociopath because I felt no sympathy, just humour. I almost crossed it out. Until I was 6 years old I thought it was completely normal to have parents who don't live together. I think I turned out ok, you'll be able to make your own judgement by the end of this.

Both of my parents had new partners before the end of the year of their divorce. I was a crappy step-child. I hated everybody in the world except my mother. Probably because it was everyone except my mother who was attacking in the war. As a grumpy toddler it seemed as though the war was on me and I was constantly being attacked. Later I discovered I was in the crossfire of something greater, yet nobody cared when I got shot. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess. My duty was to take the attack from one side to another, for example my step mother would pull the trigger, I would have to carry the bullet to the other side, and then I would watched as it pierced either my mother or step father. Sometimes the impact would harm me as well, or sometimes somebody would aim slightly wrong and shoot me instead. There were definitely all accidents. I hope.
Fast forward 10 years later. Even the weakest of people have a point where they have to make a change and fight back. Except some weak people can't every fight, such as myself. I did manage to get good at running though. Like Forrest Gump, I ran and ran and ran. I ran into my mother's arms and never crossed back over to the other side of the battlefield. Everything has consequences.

I started school when I was 3. At this amazing school I remained until I was 15. It was a single sex, all girls private school. Extremely shielded, relatively small student population and prestigious with grades. From when I started there to when I finished, I had the same friends. They were amazing. We all dressed the same, thought the same, took the same classes and got the same grades. We even liked the same guys, but never actually talked to them because they went to another school. We mocked the popular kids, mocked the weird kids and mocked ourselves. Life was easy and it would have stayed that way.
As a result of my running, my father and step mother put in one last effort to shoot, and this time, definitely aimed at me on purpose. They blew me out of my school, my comfort and away from my friends into this new place. Drugs, alcohol, boys and a significantly larger student population shook me to the core. That's where the story takes off.