I sighed. Slowly, I closed my eyes and laid my head against the cold glass window of the bus. I was hoping for Clay to stay and talk for a bit, but I guess where ever he was going was important. Either that, or he just didn’t want to talk to me. The bus moved forward and drove off. Secretly, I did hope that he stopped to take a glance at me as the bus passed by, but I doubted it. He hasn’t taken glances at me like that since eighth grade, before I had to hide scars from seriously judgmental people.
It was always so obvious how he felt about me then. He would always take a quick glance at me during lunch or in some of our classes, and I would always notice it in the corner of my eye. Every once and I while I would look back at him and he’d quickly turn away, blushing in embarrassment.
I smiled, but it quickly faded. It won’t happen again, unfortunately in my part. I did kind of feel the same way about him, but it’s not like it would work out anymore. Once I changed after eighth grade, and started high school. He became more . . . obsessed – I guess I could say – with someone else. Hannah Baker. Someone who appeared to hide her real self, just like I did back in middle school. Though, I felt that we were the same. We both felt too weak to deal with the world.
The bus stopped again. I looked out the window. We were stopped near another neighborhood. Quickly, I got up and walked towards the front. I thanked the driver and jumped off. I had no idea where I was heading, but I didn’t care. I just continued walking; I just needed my mind on something other than Clay.
The world still had an eerie aura that night, and I understood why. It made me a little happy for once. I wanted my last night in this town to feel nice, I was glad.
I have no clue how long I was walking for, but I soon found myself in the Eisenhower Park with no complete clue how I ended up there. I guess my subconscious wanted to take me somewhere that gave me hours of fun when I was a child.
I remembered the playground with that tall rocket where young kids usually got stuck and cried for their parents to come and get them. I only got stuck up there once. I wasn’t helped down; I found my way by myself, after a lot of crying, of course.
At night, with the eerie feeling in the sky, the playground seemed haunted. It’s like area knew what I had planned for the next day, like it was already mourning for the lost orphan who never belonged anywhere.
As if I didn’t want to disturb the child spirits who played there at night, I quietly went to swing to hang out there for a bit. As a child, I would have sat there and try to go as high up as possible then jump off when I believed I’ve reached the max height. Being a reckless child did leave me with a couple of scars on my legs, but I always thought that was part of having fun. Getting some cuts that remind you of fun times, not like the ones on my wrists.
This time, I only sat, I didn’t try swinging. This is one of the things I’d be leaving. My childhood memories. All the times I was on the ground, clutching a skinned knee or splintered finger, hoping my adoptive mother would help me feel better. There was none of that now. No crying over a cut wrist. No fake mother to clean off the blood and give me a band-aide. The only thing I had was myself. I was the one to decide what I’d do.
Then I pulled out my notebook from the bag I was carrying. I felt that I needed to write a note for when they find me. I pulled out a pencil and started writing.