I hate you. I hate you so much. The hate wells up inside me, bringing burning, painful tears to my eyes. I don't hold them back.
It was not because I could not go on the computer that I was crying. How vain. How stupid and shallow. No, it was because no matter how hard I tried, bad things always surrounded me. There was too much to handle. And finally, finally, something good had happened, and she ripped it away.
My mom I did not hate, though. I hated the messy-haired, blue-eyed girl in the mirror, with the blotchy face wet from tears, and the puffy lips from sobbing, and the aching foot from kicking the heater and screaming.
This was who I was. This monster, the aberration, who could only become human again through scrawled words on a blank page.
The argument I knew would never happen formed in my head. Why should I take responsibility for what you want done? I don't care enough for it to be my fight. I was curious, that's all, and upset, and you saw anger. I don't want to be this, though. I don't want to be one of those students whose parents e-mail the teachers because they didn't get the grade they wanted. You care, not me. Don't drag me into this. I don't care. I don't care.
I need to get away from the trembling monster in the mirror. I stumble, blinded from tears, to my backpack, ripping the book away from the top to get my journal. It is too late by the time I hear the ripping sound and the book is in two pieces. A strangeled cry escapes my throat. Another thing is going wrong. I am tempted to go downstairs and through it at you, but I know I won't. That will not vent my fury, my resentment. Throwing the book to the side, I open my notebook to a clean page and dig through my pencil case till I have my favorite pen.
The anger rushes from my heart to the page, transforming the words into the past few minutes. I feel my breathing steady and other thoughts enter my head...I should be doing my homework. Will I get my phone back? Oh no...I forgot to mention how I furiously brushed my hair because I hated looking at the wild mane. Should I revise, or keep my moment unpolluted?
I take a deep breath and look at the ceiling. My eyes sting. I know I'm not angry anymore, but my pen won't leave the page. This entire moment must be captured. I cannot rest till it is complete.
With a sigh, I look at the clock. Has it been an hour since I got home? Impossible. Ugh, you don't know anything about my school. You think because you're an adult you know better than me in everything, but you don't. I know this. I know you are wrong.
My moment is over. I can feel it. But this is no longer hell, this is heaven. Golden afternoon light mizes with shadow around my room, and I am comfortably rested on the floor with my back against my bed. The words come easily to me as I write. My head is still heavy from sobbing and my eyes sting a little.
For me, this is heaven.
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Yes, I know this could use work to make it really good, but I didn't write it to publish it (make it better than the original version), I wrote it so I could get rid of my anger. I realize it's a little confusing in some places, but this is exactly what I was thinking then. You can comment if you have a question :)