Whispers of a hidden heart chapters 5 & 6

AGAIN NO ONE FROM SCHOOL READ THIS PLEASE!!!!!!

Chapter five.

The trees dance in the breeze, whispering to each other. Look at her they murmur, hands stretching into the sky. I ignore them, just keep walking, dodge the cracks in the pavement. The cracks in my pavement, the cracks in my life.

If I fall, I could tumble onto my head and lie in the dirt, crimson blood pooling around my body. The crows would eye mr from their wooden castles, hidden amongst leaves. They would swoop down as soon as the glass wall dividing my life and death shattered, as soon as I became no longer. They would try to eat me. But they wouldn’t. I’m a wooden girl, with a led heart. I was never human anyway, more an arrangement of atoms. The five most significant qualities of humans are consciousness, empathy, creativity, resilience, and the pursuit of meaning and purpose. That is what makes humans human. That is what makes me not human. Oh, Scarlett, what have you done?

I don’t matter. Obviously.

If I died, no one would find me until hours later. No one would miss me. I would lie here in the dust, a pool of blood around me, my heart stopped dead in its tracks. But I would still be thinking. My ghost would hover over my body, my spirit haunting souls who get to close. I am the demon, watching the world from above. I have no body. And when the police identify who I am, people will cry. They will be sad. But then they will forget who I am, forget I existed. That is, if I died now.

But I’m still alive, still walking along the jagged pavement towards school, violin case in hand and bag on back. All I have to do is survive the next six-and-a-half energy-draining, suffocating hours. It can’t be that bad. Said nobody ever. Of course it’s bad, it’s terrible, it’s life. It hurts to walk into those gates, knowing that I’ll be trapped in these walls, in this prison, for more than a third of my time awake, every single weekday.

Nobody knows me. Nobody knows the way how think, how my thoughts arrange themselves into files in my head. Nobody knows the voices screaming inside me. Nobody knows what it feels like to be trapped in your own body. But I do. People see me. They see a human. They see a girl, just another person on the planet. I’m transparent, I’m invisible, I am Scarlett Georgina Spina. I lurk in the shadows of somewhere between here, somewhere between on/off, alive/dead, fine/not okay. I’m a nobody. Who are you?

People know who I am. On the outside, at least. They know that I’m on the debating team, that I sing in the choir, that I’m library captain and have a role in the musical. They see my outside, but their eyes slide right through the actual me, like I’m a ghost. Like the problems they don’t see are infecting me, termites under my skin. Because they are. And nobody will know they are there until they take over. Until they are all I see, burning black and red. And maybe they already have taken over. I don’t know yet.

And as I walk through the school gates, I see a mix of red and blue. Red blood, hurt. And in the depths of blue, I open my eyes to depression and coldness. The world is just sea of colours, and I am just a kaleidoscope of emotions. I am a canvas painted over many times, but still blank. I am hovering somewhere between. I pretend to be normal, okay, perfectly fine, just get through the day. Avoid the cracks in my life. I’m fine, just another perfectly ordinary human being.

And,

breath.

I step into the hall. Stay calm. Everything will be okay, everything is okay. I’m fine. I’m alright. I sneak around the people; I am a cat slinking around the corner. Silent. My eyes slide past the music stands peppering the floor, back to my feet. Stop the tears. They’re not welcome here. Neither am I. I’ve known strings for 12 weeks. I’ve known violin for more than half my time at school. The two don’t match up. I learnt how to play violin in grade three, after I wasn’t accepted the year before. Not that anyone else here accepts me right now.

You can see it in their eyes. “Orchestra was better without her” are the words etched into their faces when they look at me. It probably was. I also probably suck at playing music, and the teacher just let me in because she felt bad for me. It happens more often than you would think. Maybe I sound like a dying bird? Oh, Scarlett, what have you done? I don’t know. I unpack, spin the zipper around and undo the Velcro latch. My hands reach in and pull out my violin. It’s beautiful, auburn wood glistening in the beams of light reflected through the window. And it’s the only thing that truly belongs to me.

My fingers trace its smooth shape, more existent than I will ever be. They run along the carvings of the f-holes into the body of the violin and wrap around the strings. I pull out the rosin and delicately lift it to my bow. It glides across, in a constant rhythm. Long, short-short, long short-short. Unlike me. I open my folder and place it onto one of the music stands, far back. I am still Pluto, banished to the corners of this world, the edges of the solar system. I am still a spirit, watching Earth from above. I always have been, always will be. Nothing changes.

We start playing, my bow arching over the strings. The melody spills from the pages of my book, a beautiful, harmonious tune. Black circles dot the page, nothing but ink on paper but so much more. They are emotion, alive with power. They can change lives. Not that anyone knows that. The beat of the song overlaps my led heart. It has a steady rhythm, stronger than me, more consistent than my life will ever be. It follows the path, a straight trek forward across the bars. It has rules it abides and does not stray from what is written. It is perfect.

It is not me. I am not perfect. I do not have a straight path forward; my life is not a clear trek. I am climbing mountains, only to reach the top and find that there’s no way down, to tumble and fall back to where I started. I will never take the form of music. I get lost in it. And now I am lost in the crowds swarming to their cases, a labyrinth of bodies and instruments pulled towards Earth. They are all stuck to the ground, but I am still up there like a lost balloon. I am filled with helium and am not coming down. Maybe it’s okay to be a part of the crowd. Sometimes. I am a nobody. Always.

I slide the shoulder rest off my violin and pack it away, pulling it neatly into its case and closing the top. I bottled up my emotions and close the lid on them, too. I don’t need them in my head. I am normal, okay, perfectly fine, remember? Oh, Scarlett, what have you done? My bag is on my back and I’m reaching for my violin case. I am a puppet on stings. I am an automated robot. I am a ghost hovering thirty centimetres off the ground. I’m alive, but not living. I’ll survive. I’m still hollow inside. I always will be. Six-and-a-half hours to go.

My backpack drags me down, another weight forced upon me. In it is my life, my problems stuffed into the pockets. It is filled to the brim, overflowing with feeling. All I want to do is yank it off my body, throw my hands at the sky and scream at the heavens. Dear God, dear soul, dear heart, dear life, I am here. I am Scarlett Georgina. I live here on Earth, I am here. You can do what you want to me. I am ripped into pieces, I am torn to shreds, I am maimed inside. You can’t get rid of me. Why have you done this?

People don’t see me. In the absence of light, I am a shadow stretching across the world. I am not solid; I am not an object sitting on Earth. I am Pluto, orbiting around other people’s lives. I am not living. But they don’t know that. They don’t know that I am an alien to this world. To them, I don’t hurt inside. I am not scarred with my past and my emotions don’t control me. I am alive and I am here too. I live with them. Not in my own world. We are all humans. I am just not human. Act like I’m okay. I am not okay.

I live in layers. My outer layer is cracked, old and worn through. It is me pretending, the roles I play to get pass the day. Through holes in the costume I wear seeps magic. Red fairy dust and flames burning scarlet. It is my anger. It is my emotions. It is something that nobody sees, until it is boiling over the edge. I am a volcano. People don’t see what I’m feeling until it bubbles out, knocking them over and destroying their lives. They can’t help me. They can’t fix the monster I am; they can’t stitch up my broken heart. Oh, Scarlett, what have you done?

In the back of my mind sit things that no one else knows. Things that haunt me, that leave me bare. I grip the cliff, my fingertips scratching at the dirt. I am so close to plunging into ice cold water, sinking to the bottom with my worries and fears. And maybe I already have. Maybe I am struggling to stay afloat? Or am I hovering above the surface of here, normal, okay, perfectly fine? If only I were human.

The bell brings me back to the present. It’s not the shrill screech of a bell that rings through the air, but a song. At the moment, it’s  I feel better when I’m dancing.  I feel better when I’m dead. I drop my bag on the bag-racks and shoulder my computer case. In my other hand is the book I’m reading, a young adult novel, about lasting friendships and love. I wish. I sit down and eye the rest of my class. There are people racing around the corridor, others trading gum in the corner and few sitting down, where we should be.

I look up to see Charlie sliding down the wall, side eyeing Daniel who is laughing back. The line is growing, filled mostly by the girls and a few boys. It’s only a matter of time before the door is inched open by our teacher, and everyone races to sit down. A matter of time before I have to put on a fake smile, hide myself from the world. Time to cover my cracks with bandages. I am normal. Okay. Perfectly fine. I will survive.

Chapter six.

People rush inside, like a horde of mosquitoes. Charlie pins the door to the wall just as cries of outrage spiral through the air. He lets me step into the classroom first, and he follows. There are paddle pop sticks set out on each desk, with their own individual names on them. People scramble around the classroom, trying to find their own.

“Nooo! I have to sit next to Daniel!” Complains Emma from the other side of the room.

“At least you don’t have to sit near Tony.” I say back, but Ana cuts me off.

“That’s because I have to sit next to Tony! Mrs T, when are we swapping desks again?”

I find my new desk, next to the window on a row of two. I’m next to Charlie. All the tables in our classroom are mismatched, which means that it is really hard to arrange them so that there is space to walk in between. At the moment, there is a jellybean table sitting in the front of the room, followed back by a triplet of double tables in the centre of the space. There two rows of double desks on the left side, and two high tables at the back. In front of our teacher’s desk is another double table, and near the door are four small tables. I put my book down and turn my chair to face Mrs Trowbridge, although my mind is somewhere distant.

My eyes are drawn out the window, to the trees swaying in the park, towering above the world and sweeping over Earth. A part of me detaches and floats up to join them. I am sitting on the branches and looking out over the school, over at the hundreds of feeling souls sitting in their classrooms, and me. I am an imposter to the world. I live a half-life, cursed. Just like a ghost.

I see my eyes staring into the sky, glossy and faraway. I am looking away from the pain, if I don’t see it then it’s not there. I look away from myself, into a universe where I belong. Where I am a happy girl who has people to talk to, who isn’t alone. If only that was me. With a jolt, my phantom slides back into my body. A sticky-note slides across my desk. From Charlie.

R U okay???

I want to leap from my chair and scream across the room. I am not okay. I want to push tables over, throw my body into other people and ruin their lives, just as they ruined mine. I want to sweep the books of the bookshelves, rip the pages from the cover because their stories are not real. They record lives that never existed, always ending in happily ever after.

I do not end in happily ever after.

And I hate the world, hate the way people assume they know when really everything is messed up, so perfectly imperfect and beautifully ugly. They pretend to accept, asking if I’m okay but knowing I’ll say yes, I’m fine, but I am not fine. If you ask that question, you already know what the answer is. Deep down, I am a flame wanting to escape but people keep putting me out, it is better to forgive and forget. How can you forget the feeling not belonging?

I grab my pencil and scribble down; I’ve been better. U?

But have I been better? In times when I was playing pirates with my neighbours, when my only worry was who had the stolen treasure. In times of rainbows, when the sun beamed down on the world and said, good job, Scarlett. Keep pretending. You are perfect in an imperfect world; you shine light on others. Keep pretending. Maybe in another world would I be accepted, a being worth being. Maybe in another world would I be soaring though the clouds, not just another grey on the spectrum. There is no black and white, no clear way, just a series of in betweens. Like I am in between life. Keep pretending.

I pass the note back across the tables and watch as his pencil scratches graphite under my message. He hands it back to me, and everything goes blurry. Goosebumps erupt over my skin, but I don’t know why, and I don’t know what to do. What have I done? Why am I letting myself out of the cage in my heart when I know that the world will just come prancing in? But there’s something about Charlie that makes me feel safe. I glance down at the note and see the words that I somehow knew were going to be there.

Not really.

He isn’t fine. Deep inside, he is Pluto too, just another dwarf planet stuck on the edges of the solar system. Are you free at lunch? I need to talk to someone, I write back. And he is. There it is. I have found someone to talk to. For me, a way of coping.

A desperate remedy to set my life straight.