She was a silent little girl, of not many words. She’d write and write. It was her passion. She solved the problem. The city was on a food shortage.
Her voice was powerful, but no one believed in her. What she did. She had changed the world. She wanted them to believe her.
But they wouldn’t. She cried herself to sleep every night. When morning came, she would think. She would think and think and think.
She found a couple of ways. For them to believe her for what she did. How she made electricity into food. But no one believed. Not one soul.
Her invention was broken. She had no way to recreate it. That's why she thought. People wanted to believe her. She had no proof though.
It was gone. Her masterpiece. Not even her mom and dad believed her. They’d seen the invention before. They saw it do work. But yet, they said it was just “magic”.
She had a cat, Murray. He would believe her. She said he was no use. What could he do to help? Meow?
She would sit in her soft leather chair, holding back her tears. Until a day came, when a new soul came. When her brother came home. He saw what she did. She believed in her.
“You’re home.” I said, full of unwanted sorrow.
“Yeah. I am.” He replied, sitting down on my bed, admiring all of my squishmallows.
“Do you believe me?” I asked, and he turned his head away from mine.
“Yes. I do. I just need time.” He explained.
“Time for what?”
“To think. Think, think, think.”
He left the room. What a conversation. The room was full of sorrow. The only person that believed me was my cat. A useless one, in fact.
She thought. She had ideas. She threw them away. In her mind. To a dark, deep place where all of the bad thoughts went.
Nightmares. Bad ideas. All of the bad stuff.
He pulled the knob, and left the room.
“Hey. I believe in you.” He said, leaving the room.
I laid in my bed, and cried. Finally someone that believed in me. The tears piled up, like all of those pieces of boring homework.
I was crying. I was happy. The room had a hint of sorrow in it. From the talk we had. I kept on crying. Was I sad? Was I happy?
There was a knock.
“I love you. Don’t forget that.” It was the sound of my brother's voice.
“I do too.” I said, my voice cracking, and trying to fight back the tears.
You could hear the sound of his footsteps, trailing off downstairs. She sat in her chair. She thought. Writing was her way out of this.
It was her way of releasing her thoughts. She let the words flow onto the page, like a river.
There was a person tubing on the river. In her mind. And she’d hit rocks, a stopping point in her life. It would slow her down. Like bumps in a river.
She was trying to find a way. A way to get people to believe her. She’d stay up late at night. Trying to figure out a way. But she couldn’t.
She’d protest. Her whole life felt like a lie. She’d let her tears flow.
Every night. Every night he’d come. Her brother. And every night he would say the same thing.
“I believe you. Don’t ever give up. Don’t listen to those morons, who try to tell you that you are a liar. You solved a huge problem. And that’s great.” He’d say. He tried to encourage me. It wouldn’t work.
“I know. I know you believe me. I won’t give up. Unless something stops me. I did solve something. And it really helped the world. But no one believes me.” I’d say, and he would look down.
“Well, I beli-”
“I know! You’ve told me that a million times now. Just please go away. I want some alone time.” I’d say, and he’d pretend to leave.
He closed the door, but his shadow slipped under it. His feet. He’d listen to me crying. Sobbing into my pillow. I knew he was there.
He knew that I knew that he was there. He just wanted to make sure I was okay. After all that was happening. My life was ruined.
I’d wake up the next morning. A Monday. The most dreadful day of the week. I’d open the door. Find my brother in a sleeping bag. He loved me. And wanted to make sure I was okay.
The bus would come to a stop. The doors would open. I’d walk up those three steps. Go all the way back to seat twenty six. Nobody sat in the back, except me and my feelings. Me and my anger.
Me and my life. I’d hold back the tears. On the bus. My feelings would bother me. They would poke me from behind. I’d look back. Nobody.
My thoughts stirred. My feelings annoyed me though, so it was hard to think. They would be behind me. My feelings. Laughing. Their lives were good. Mine was trash. Not even my feelings believed me. And proof?
The people wouldn’t believe me. They’d say it was a magic trick. An illusion. But it wasn’t. The bus ride was miserable. One whole hour of pain. Torture. Kids screaming. People jamming songs.
The bus driver. Our bus driver. She kind of believed me. I had faith in her. I hated the bus, although it gave me some time to think. About all of this stuff. My life. My feelings. My brother. How to get people to believe me. They wouldn’t.
That one kid on the bus. He sat a few seats in front of me. He’d always start chants with his friends. Get into a little sissy fight. They were like minions. When they all fought. Then the bus driver would come along, and stop the fight. The madness. And there I sat. Alone, with my feelings.