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writing
Alright. So still working on this story. And I know I've rewritten the beginning about 80 times. Here is yet another beginning. Obviously it basically serves as characterization of Timria and a brief look of her view of Lanif before stuff starts happening. This might even end up changing...I feel like some of it's cliche. But it'll do for now. My goal is to get a sizeable chunk of the beginning done so it can go back on my website. And now that I've lost everyone....here is the scene.
Another awkward, pointless day. At least it was the last class of the day. Timria looked at her watch and frowned in defeat. It had only been 20 minutes and there will still 70 minutes left. She was in English, by far the worst class of the day. Timria liked English. She just hated everyone in her class. She had arrived late on the first day and was forced to sit in the front of the class, right in the middle. She hated being where everyone could see her. Walking through the halls and getting lunch was bad enough, but sitting in the view of 30 other people for 90 minutes every day was practically unbearable.
Every day, there was a look. Or a comment. A patronizing smirk. Hushed whispered after she was forced to voice her opinion by the teacher. Each only lasting a few seconds. But over time, those daily seconds added up.
Today was worse than usual. Today, the assignment had been to write a poem and read it in front of the class. No one had volunteered, and the teacher had asked Timria to go first. She had stood in front of her peers, her stomach clenching so hard she was sure she would be sick. Forcing herself to focus on the words and not the faces, she had read her poem more quickly than poetry should be read, reaching the end relatively easily and sliding back into her seat before anyone could react. For a few moments, there was complete silence. Timria had felt a strong desire to bury her face in her arms. Hushed whispers, all around her. Hushed whispers were always the worst reaction. With anything else, at least there was no guessing.
Her teacher put on a mask of intensity and asked Timria a few “probing” questions about her poem, trying to make her feel better by proving to the class that the poem had meaning. Timria felt flashes of pure hatred for her teacher.
After suffering for another hour of poem-reading and analyzation, Timria felt like she was going to scream. After each poem, classmates would offer comments. But everyone kept glancing at her. Whispering.
Finally, the bell rang. Timria all but ran to the door, running right into a classmate’s arm. Lanif’s. Another egotistic boy. He turned, looking irritated.
“I’m sorry!” she burst, rushing past him. Hallways. Walking through hallways was also terrible. Everyone smiling, talking to their friends. Making plans. It’ll be okay if I can get to the locker room. If I can be by myself for just a minute, I’ll be fine. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.
The locker room was silent. Everyone else had friends to talk to after class. Timria locked herself in a stall in the bathroom. She changed and sat on the toilet, finally clutching her face in her moment of solitude. Her fingers pressed deeper and deeper into her skin. Her eyes were clenched shut. She pressed her hands against her mouth, rocking back and forth slightly.
she’s so weird
she’s a total bitch, otherwise she’d have friends
why did she read that to the class? that was stupid…
stupid
weird
i hate her
stupid
stupid
...why doesn’t she just kill herself?
“Shut up,” she hissed, scarcely audible. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
Someone else entered the bathroom and locked themselves in the stall next to her. Timria left the bathroom, calmly washing her hands. Like nothing had happened. She was good at that.
She was good at running, too. Feet pounding, keep the breathing steady, don’t think, don’t think, just run. Cross-country was the only extra curricular activity Timria took part in. No contact with other people was required. She didn’t have to pretend she knew how to make friends. And everyone else didn’t have to pretend to like her.
The coach was stopping everyone, holding up his hands. Practice must be done. She heard someone say the words “spaghetti dinner” and she immediately changed directions, heading for the locker room. Her teammates always had spaghetti dinners the night before a meet.
Her coach called out to her. “Timria, we’re planning the dinner!” She turned and smiled, yelling,
“I have to be home in 15 minutes, sorry!” Most of the other sophomores had their parents pick them up. Timria didn’t have anyone to pick her up. She walked home. She didn’t really have to be home in 15 minutes. Sometimes she wondered her father would notice if she never came home at all.
Another awkward, pointless day. At least it was the last class of the day. Timria looked at her watch and frowned in defeat. It had only been 20 minutes and there will still 70 minutes left. She was in English, by far the worst class of the day. Timria liked English. She just hated everyone in her class. She had arrived late on the first day and was forced to sit in the front of the class, right in the middle. She hated being where everyone could see her. Walking through the halls and getting lunch was bad enough, but sitting in the view of 30 other people for 90 minutes every day was practically unbearable.
Every day, there was a look. Or a comment. A patronizing smirk. Hushed whispered after she was forced to voice her opinion by the teacher. Each only lasting a few seconds. But over time, those daily seconds added up.
Today was worse than usual. Today, the assignment had been to write a poem and read it in front of the class. No one had volunteered, and the teacher had asked Timria to go first. She had stood in front of her peers, her stomach clenching so hard she was sure she would be sick. Forcing herself to focus on the words and not the faces, she had read her poem more quickly than poetry should be read, reaching the end relatively easily and sliding back into her seat before anyone could react. For a few moments, there was complete silence. Timria had felt a strong desire to bury her face in her arms. Hushed whispers, all around her. Hushed whispers were always the worst reaction. With anything else, at least there was no guessing.
Her teacher put on a mask of intensity and asked Timria a few “probing” questions about her poem, trying to make her feel better by proving to the class that the poem had meaning. Timria felt flashes of pure hatred for her teacher.
After suffering for another hour of poem-reading and analyzation, Timria felt like she was going to scream. After each poem, classmates would offer comments. But everyone kept glancing at her. Whispering.
Finally, the bell rang. Timria all but ran to the door, running right into a classmate’s arm. Lanif’s. Another egotistic boy. He turned, looking irritated.
“I’m sorry!” she burst, rushing past him. Hallways. Walking through hallways was also terrible. Everyone smiling, talking to their friends. Making plans. It’ll be okay if I can get to the locker room. If I can be by myself for just a minute, I’ll be fine. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.
The locker room was silent. Everyone else had friends to talk to after class. Timria locked herself in a stall in the bathroom. She changed and sat on the toilet, finally clutching her face in her moment of solitude. Her fingers pressed deeper and deeper into her skin. Her eyes were clenched shut. She pressed her hands against her mouth, rocking back and forth slightly.
she’s so weird
she’s a total bitch, otherwise she’d have friends
why did she read that to the class? that was stupid…
stupid
weird
i hate her
stupid
stupid
...why doesn’t she just kill herself?
“Shut up,” she hissed, scarcely audible. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
Someone else entered the bathroom and locked themselves in the stall next to her. Timria left the bathroom, calmly washing her hands. Like nothing had happened. She was good at that.
She was good at running, too. Feet pounding, keep the breathing steady, don’t think, don’t think, just run. Cross-country was the only extra curricular activity Timria took part in. No contact with other people was required. She didn’t have to pretend she knew how to make friends. And everyone else didn’t have to pretend to like her.
The coach was stopping everyone, holding up his hands. Practice must be done. She heard someone say the words “spaghetti dinner” and she immediately changed directions, heading for the locker room. Her teammates always had spaghetti dinners the night before a meet.
Her coach called out to her. “Timria, we’re planning the dinner!” She turned and smiled, yelling,
“I have to be home in 15 minutes, sorry!” Most of the other sophomores had their parents pick them up. Timria didn’t have anyone to pick her up. She walked home. She didn’t really have to be home in 15 minutes. Sometimes she wondered her father would notice if she never came home at all.