Young Writers Society

So, I was just another girl. You had a list. A plan, a scheme. Call it what you will. Did I have a number? Girl number 34? Do I get a tick beside my name on your mental checklist? Can I have a gold star, please, for being such an easy target?

I expected this feeling of betrayal (and don't flatter yourself, you weren't that good; I saw this coming) to feel like getting hit by a car. I imagined sharp, sudden, all consuming pain. I imagined the type of pain that stopped all thoughts. The type of pain that knocked the wind out of my lungs, that took over my heart, that made everything blur and fade into one. I imagined seeing everything in grey after the betrayal, that the hurt would soak all color from my world. I saw myself as a torn, broken shell. I would wander empty streets late at night, i-Pod tucked into my pocket, volume up, listening to Alanis Morissette perhaps. She seems fitting, doesn't she? You would hate her and she is what I would consider a strong, feminist kind of woman. She is probably a lesbian, now I think of it but that is neither here nor there. I saw myself baking rich chocolate cake, the recipe for which I have in my diary under the title of Heartbreak Cake. I have never had the chance to use the recipe but I imagined I might, for you. I suppose I saw myself as a heartbroken girl, experiencing raw emotion.

It was nothing like that. Just a dull, harsh feeling that cannot be described as 'pain' exactly. Pain is red, the color of poppies in the dark. This is a grey feeling, a misty dawn-blue. There was a connection that bound me to you. Infatuation, I should say, although I cannot bear to write that. Now I feel it faltering. The connection is static, no longer so secure. Oh, yeah. It hurts, don't be confused. The feeling might be dull but it is dull in the way a hammer against the heart is; the way suffocation might be. But not the way I thought it would. Not the way it did that summer.

Not that you know about that summer. Not that you give damn. That was the summer I learnt not to care. That was the summer I learnt my magic trick. The trick where I can turn off emotion as if there is a switch inside me. It didn't take me long. I didn't work on it. It just happened, almost over night. See, there was a guy. No surprises there. Don't fall off your seat. I didn't feel the same way about him as I do about you. I hadn't given myself to him the way I did with you. You'd think I would have gotten smarter since then but it appears I just lost intelligence rather then gained it. Age does not always bring wisdom and that scares the shit out of me.

I liked him though. And the disco, if that is what you can call an ugly hall decorated with cheap lights and vibrating with bad music, had a kind of power. Kissing him was strange. I say I have no regrets but I'm lying. Because I do. And this is one: I should have pulled away then. When it didn't feel right, I should have known. I felt a little dizzy, very awkward. I kept kissing him though, kept kissing him and letting him touch me.

Afterwards, when it turned out it was a bet, that feeling was red. Red and sore. Raw, cutting pain. That was getting hit by a car. That was gunshot. I almost cried. Almost, but not quite, and for that i am proud. Because I can honestly say I have never cried over a boy. (I am proud of that but maybe it just means I am incurably screwed up and for that you can blame my mother. But that is another story.)

I hope he bought himself something good with the money he won. I damn well hope I was worth at least a new video game.

So that is the story and yeah, it's not shocking. I didn't exactly kill myself. I got over it. But it hurt and it taught me not to feel.

You untaught the lesson, knocked down my wall. I'll rebuild it. Bend down, pick up the pieces. I know how to build it this time. I'll make it stronger, add another layer.

I'll close up.

I am still undecided as to whether kissing you means I am trusting or just weak. Did I do it a) because I am so believing in human nature or b) because I am stupid? I think we both know. It's secret option c: I had totally fallen for you.

So here I am. Alone, hurt. Changed by you. Well done, congratulations, you left your mark. On to girl number 35. Good luck. To her, I mean. Lets hope she screws you over instead. Bitter? Me?

The night is gentle. A light heat hangs in the air. A gentle cotton blanket heat. The perfect covering of warmth. Someone wove this night with tender hands. This is the night of new beginnings. I'll get over it. Not tonight, not tomorrow. You'll still take my breath away. You'll still make my heart skip the requisite amount of beats. Only for a little while. One night, I'll hit the switch and we'll forget this ever happened (I live in hope).

Just around the corner, there is another boy.

Until then, I've got the volume up on my i-Pod and Alanis is singing her little heart out.