Rough Draft 2

Smithdale, New Hampshire, a small town with explosive trees and molded green leaves that stole the little sunshine we would ever receive, narrow roads that held only one street light per block, dim personalities that left everyone neighbor-less was where I was placed my entire life. I lived on 666 meadow drive next to an old abandoned warehouse that was taken over by spider webs and vultures. That house and I became best friends in a short period of time. Whenever I approached my house, dark red daffodils that slept on the ground, crooked pavements that looked welcoming and the horrid smell of uncut grass all greeted me. In many ways I felt I belonged there because it reflected my barbaric appearance. I had angry, dark brown curls that had a mind of its own, intelligent eyes with long lashes, a small nose, chapped lips and big ears. My appearance simply reflected my dark, desolate and dull neighborhood. Eventually, by the age of 14, I accepted my looks and understood that those were the reasons I walked alone for three years in high school. I was a hurricane, I stole the smiles off faces, dampened days with a downpour of rain and that was one of the nicer compliments I would receive from my parents. I had a room of my own and my bed was rather small. The warehouse was directly across from the only window in my room and looking through it, I could see my reflection on the giant mirror on building. Whenever there was a full moon, it would reflect on the mirror and I’d always close my eyes and hope when I’d re-open them I could be in heaven but it never works and I remained hopeless.
I was never a light sleeper and my mom would push me off the bed and that would be my alarm clock. After some years, it became routine and the pain would turn into a more desirable feeling and at some point I felt I deserved it for not waking up on my own. Before school, I usually drink water and walk the forty blocks to first period. Sacred Heart high school was an all girl school filled with experimental girls and a rigid social hierarchy where I was first place at the bottom. Although I didn’t want the attention because of all the crosses on my body, I’d still imagine what a friend felt like.
The coldest day of winter, March 4th, it was seven degrees below and the hall ways seemed smaller than ever before.
The Nurse’s office was like a never ending path and I had to be there before 3rd period bell rang. The lockers were a painter’s creation and it all seemed to be a part of a grey illusion. At this point, my brain froze and my melted. Nothing was the same except that it was my birthday. On my journey, I thought about all my previous birthdays and how all I wanted was to be rescued. And for some strange reason I knew this birthday, things would be different. I saw the light in the office as I drew closer to the door and I couldn’t think of the perfect excuse. It was between number twenty-five, burning myself with the iron or number thirteen, falling on the concrete pavement. Unfortunately, I have used #25 too often so #13 had to be a good story. Finally I reached my destination and as turned the door knob slowly and took about five steps into the office, Miss Ronclark barked a “how are you? You got here quick” directly at my face. I said my usual “I’m fine”, raised my eyebrows and sat on the bed.Smiling at her, I tried to kick the nervousness out my body and welcome a more relax feeling. She looked back with a pathetic smirk saying “this is your 47th time in my office in three months, “What’s going on?” I grinned and said “I guess I’m just extremely clumsy” and looked down. She threw at look of disbelief at me and told me to tell my parents to come in to have a talk with her. I gave her my real address, took the key, released the chains and flew with doves.