I am intelligent. I haven’t always known this. So many of my early memories are filled with the adults in my life gaping down at me before letting out hearty guffaws and exclaiming to my book-loving-never-baby-talking parents about the extent of my vocabulary, as if they hadn’t noticed.

So many of my elementary school years were filled with teachers wracking their brains because when I asked ‘why?’ I meant it. ‘Because’ was not enough. And my peers urging me to speak English, not that I knew what that meant. Reading books where all the characters hated math and I wondered how this could be.

But I had never grasped that people saw me this way. My class had the giggly proto-popular girls, the-way-in-the-back-and-too-loud boys, the just-kind-of-there kids, the sort-of-my-friends-but-not-quite kids, and the smart always-winning-Kahoot kind of kids. And me.

And I’d observe the mental real estate as the teacher called out groups, estimating my chances of joining a powerful player, and determining the worst case scenarios.

And in eighth grade history, I scrutinized my group. I gazed longingly at groups far more cohesive than my motley crew.

“Oh good, Eliana’s in our group. She’s smart.”

I’m not an idiot, I know I raise my hand three times more than anyone else, I know my report cards are flawless. But I also know I’m other, I know I talk too much, I’m weird. If nothing else, I’m first on a list of Spot the Difference.

It never once occurred to me that I was considered a powerful player in this group project game.

Used and twisted, poked and prod Loved and nurtured, long forgot. Raised by eyes, cold like ice I have learned how not to cry.

Be the fear Be the storm Be what we made you become.

Be the wave crashing on towns, Be the chaos all around.

They say I work in their command That I’m a weapon in their hand.

But if they make me a weapon and tell me to control myself, Am I still their weapon?

Sparks.

Everyone has some kind of spark in their eyes.

It may be a mischievous spark or a spark of constant hatred or perhaps just a soft shimmer that shows you they are still human and still very much alive.

Some peoples sparks are excited, or kind, or scared, or scary. It doesn’t matter what that person’s spark tells you about them because it’s always changing. One day their spark dances and jumps with joy. The next day it quivers with fear or shines fiercely.

People always see your spark, and they always understand it. It helps them understand you. And when someone sees your spark you’ll know. Perhaps they’ll say it, or maybe their demeanor or expression will shift a bit.

Different sparks cause different reactions. A happy spark makes them happy. A scared spark makes them concerned. A fierce spark always intimidates everyone. But when people look into my eyes, they always have the same reaction. It doesn’t matter who they are or what my day was like. It’s always the same reaction. The same shift of emotion, the same confused expression as they search my entire face for something thats not there, only to look away solemnly.

I always knew I was different but I never really knew why, until the day I looked into the mirror, and I mean really looked into it. I stared through my eyes all the way into the fabric of my very being and thats when I realized…..

…I don’t have a spark.

Our heads bobbed to the lyrics of the song. Some threw back shots of liquor. Others posted on the wall scheming the room. Everyone began to belt the lyrics of the hook in unison. BOOM. BOOM. The gunshots bellowed a command to drop. Though confused no one waited to understand. My ears rang as bullets sped past us penetrating any matter. In this moment we realized how fragile these bodies were. How thin this skin was. Though my thoughts were scrambled, prayers filled my body and spilled out of my mouth. Our clothing started to become saturated, however we didn’t dare to inspect. Each shot was louder than the last. Screams replaced the rap music that once blared through the speakers. On our bellies like soldiers we lay waiting to sprint to the nearest exit. After a few seconds of silence people began to file out. As the wind hit our faces our feet hit the ground with force in each step. Anyone on the floor would be trampled. The inertia from the race to safety caused us to hit the car with force. This was one of the first lessons, but certainly not the last.

The prophets wash their eyes in the river. The King hath ordered them for dinner. Last thing they see is the young boy pissing upstream. Such hard times on a sightless seer!

The paupers serve the King his meal. The eyes are dry, but they taste surreal! The prophets all plead to make a deal. The King smiling kindly says,”Visions aren’t real.”

The King, he cries as he tastes their sights. The King, he sees all the Seer’s plights. The King, he has had an epiphany! The King tastes the boy, pissing upstream.

(I have no idea - I’m only a little sorry.)

I got a advice a while ago on a poem of mine I asked for feedback, and they gave it to me; They told me to get away from the rhyming scheme. So with this advice in mind, I write this poem Of course I’ll still add a rhyme or two; Just to make it fun for you, But I’m not Dr. Seuss. I’m simply just someone who likes to write Who now just realized It’s bad to rhyme too many times.

“Wait, time travel are you talking about real life time travel?” Miller said, jumping up from his seat. “Dr. Gunter, calm down and please calm down and listen.” Dr. Sanjay Chen spoke in a soothing voice. “I know this is disconcerting. This is not how we typically like to involve our partners in our conversations but time is …shall we say of the essence.” Miller Gunter paced around his living room adjusting and re-adjusting his Marvel figurines. “Time is of the essence. That’s something one of my characters would say. This is some kind of joke, right? Sammy put you up to this. Wait are there cameras?” Miller asked. Miller began checking for hidden cameras while Dr. Chen pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dr. Gunter, please sit and focus. This is a matter most urgent. Lives have been lost or may be lost or are yet to be lost. You need to decide Dr. Gunter,” Dr. Sanjay Chen said. Petite, with narrow silver frames, and clad in a metallic gray suit Chen was a model of calmness except for the beads of sweat forming on her upper lip. She reminded Miller of the main character from his latest series Milla Scorpion, a sexy scientist who uncovers an ancient teleportation gateway. Tenting her fingers, Chen watched Miller closely. “Okay Dr. — I mean Miller, you are not Dr. Miller Gunter the founder of the Pegasus Time Travel Project you are Miller a struggling science fiction writer who runs successful online website for nerds who play with dolls.” Chen stilled his protest with raised hands. “As a writer imagine this scenario. We have had the technology to view the past and the future via Tesla monitors since the 1970s. A team of scientists founded by not you invents a way to send test subjects back and forwards through time to observe major events. Caprese.” Miller sat down in his easy chair and nodded dumbly. “An hour ago a van load of chrononauts crashed into a dairy van. All dead and now the future is I don’t know uncertain. The monitors are recalculating. Should we save them? I mean in your story would you save them.” Miller sat quietly turning a figurine in his hands. “As a writer no, thDratory would be richer with those characters gone. The future is always in flux. There is no observation without change. The Tesla monitors being down shows these cro-nuts whatmacallits changed time drastically,” Miller said. This time Chen jumped up from the sofa. “How can you be so sure?” “Check the dairy truck driver. Clearly a freedom fighter from the future trying desperately to right a wrong or someone from the past who realizes where the time line was altered. Did you have Xavier run DNA on the dairy truck driver?” Miller answered confused by his sudden confidence. Chen nodded. She tapped on her watch and then her eyes grew wide when the results appeared on her tiny screen. “Thank you Dr. Gunt—Miller. I love your little stories. Keep up the good work,” Chen said absentmindedly. She beelined for his door. Miller chased after her. “Wait, wait, what is going on here? Save the people, as a writer kill them all, but as a person I say save lives of course.” Chen gave him a Mona Lisa smile and shook his hand hard. “Thank you, Dr. Gunter. Enjoy your retirement.” Miller was suddenly woozy and stumbled back to his favorite chair. In a few hours Miller woke up refreshed, with an incredible story on the tip of his brain, and a Wolverine figurine tightly clenched in his hand.

The dust billowed across the top of the cardboard garrison of the attic as the hatch swung open, collecting in the air like powdered memories swirling above the countless family artifacts before settling back to cover them again. Quinn pulled herself up the top rung of the ladder and through the opening, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light coming through the slated openings in the half closed shutters. She had been putting off this task for nearly a week, but with the service slated for tomorrow, there was no more room for procrastination.

Quinn was the only child of the very normal, conservative, reputable and always very content and did we mention normal, thank you very much pair, Barbara and Stuart. Throughout her life, that had meant that she had been the only recipient of their love, of their evaluation (judgement is such a harsh word, isn’t), and now, of the endless to do list for her father’s funeral. Today’s task - tracking down old photos for the memorial service slideshow.

It was not that her parents did not have ANY family photos displayed. There had always been their wedding portrait in a frame somewhere, a scattering of images of her childhood, and her current year’s school photo was on display until her senior portrait took its place with the wedding portrait in perpetuity. But in their sizable home in Northwest DC that resembled an art gallery both in style and contents, the family photo to classical masterpiece ratio rivaled that of some public school systems - charter schools not included. So the task of putting together the number of photos the funeral home suggested for the requested slideshow had presented a challenge, the solution to which found Quinn inhaling dust and dodging cobwebs.

She opened the first box. Christmas decorations. The second. Ski equipment. The sixth. Extremely outdated bank statements. The tenth, finally, smaller boxes of faded photographs, slides and negatives. She pulled out the first box and set it on the old secretary desk against the back wall and began going through looking for contents relevant to the task at hand.

The pictures were an assemblage of faces familiar and foreign to her. She began to recognize younger versions of her parents right away, and slowly images of other distant relatives and friends began to become discernible through the layers of age. Her aunt Susan laughing with her mother in a park Quinn recognized as the one near the church they attended a few times with her grandparents. Her parents in front of a house with mountains in the background that must have been when they lived in Boulder before she was born, right after they were married.

Her parents had never told her many stories about that time. She only knew that they lived there for a few years when they were first married when her father was an associate professor at UC Boulder. They had been settled in DC for three years when she was born, and as that was the only life and home she had ever known questioning her parents about their life “before” never made much sense. She picked up a small stack of the photos and sat down to examine them closer.

Her father standing in front of the Flatirons striking a muscle man pose. Her mother, laughing with her hands on her hips in front of the red Volvo station wagon they still had when she had come along. Her parents in front of a house on a hill with a chain link fence that must of been their first home together. Her parents sitting on the front porch looking at each other. Her mom walking up the front steps holding a baby.

Holding a baby.

Quinn looked at the lid of the box she had just pulled the photos from. In faded blue ink, she made out the words “photos 1977-1979.” She had been born in 1983.

She felt like she was going crazy, and her mind start grasping for explanations. It could be a cousin, or perhaps the child of a friend. She started flipping through the photos faster, hoping to find a reasonable answer. The child in the living room of her parents home. Her parents bathing the child. The child at a table that looked set for Thanksgiving. The child in the arms of Quinn’s grandparents.

A neighbor child is not present for holidays, and they certainly would not have photographed themselves bathing the child of a friend. A relative would have also been in the photos if it was a cousin. Her stomach sunk with every new piece of evidence, the truth creeping in like the bile at the back of her throat.

She had no idea who she was or what was true. But one thing was very clear. She had never truly been an only child.

(c) copyright 2023 Anastasia Raymond

𝙴𝚇𝚃. - 𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚂, 𝙲𝙰 - 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙴𝚇𝚃. - 𝙱𝙰𝙻𝙳𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙻𝚂 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙲 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 - 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎, 𝟸𝟸 𝚜𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗, 𝟸𝟺 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚙. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚢. [𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗]

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, '𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜.'

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕. (𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜)

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛.

(𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎'𝚜 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗)

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?

(𝚔𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍)

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜, 𝙼𝚜.𝙰𝚕 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑!

(𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎)

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙺𝚎𝚟-

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘!

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: (𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚖) 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝...𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒𝚝'𝚜...𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚑 𝙽𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚢𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢! 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝, 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢, 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝.

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌'𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜-

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: (𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐) 𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑!

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜.

𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎.

(𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎)

𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚂𝙴 𝚄𝙿 𝙾𝙽 𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙸𝙴

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: (𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍) 𝙼𝚢 𝙳𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝙳𝙼.

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝙳𝙼.

𝙿𝙰𝙽 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚃𝚃𝙴

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠-

(𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜)

𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚂𝙴 𝚄𝙿 𝙾𝙽 𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙸𝙴

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙺𝚎𝚟, 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍.

𝙿𝙰𝙽 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚃𝚃𝙴

(𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚜 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚜 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜)

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙽𝚊𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚜. 𝚂𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: (𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢) 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘.

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝙽𝚘𝚙𝚎.

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.

(𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛. 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎)

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎?

𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗: 𝙾𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.

(𝚊𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢)

𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙴.

I was sitting in the principals office with John H. He was making fun of me, so I snapped back, something along the lines of his big fat nose. He punched me so I punched back and now we’re here. He was rambling on about how I was so mean to insult him and blah blah blah. I knew everything was gonna be okay, he would get in trouble and I wouldn’t cause he was wrong. The principle asked for my story, I told him everything. Then Johns parents showed up they yelled and yelled about what a horrible little girl I am, and that I better get suspended or expelled for hurting there little boy. I knew that wouldn’t happen cause John was wrong. The principal looked at me and gave me a weeks suspension for insulting and fighting with another kid. I looked sad and shocked that I was in trouble at all, but it might be fair I did punch him. Then John and his parents just left, no suspension, or detention. Nothing. I was raging it took all my will power to walk out of that room without yelling at the principal. That was the first time I realized that the world isn’t fair.