They Call Me Special (Part 2)

I guess i should start from the beginning.

I was two when they first told me that I was special.

They didn’t know that I could understand them, but I could. The late nights when they would cry, ask each other how they would manage. They thought I couldn’t understand them, but I could.

You see that’s what made me special, I could understand them, I just couldn’t respond. At this point no sensible person could respond, so I forgave them for their naïvety.

They told me that I would have to go to a special school, either that or be put in the special education program. The latter was easier for them, and cheaper.

So I went into the first grade, when I was six, and joined the schools special program.

This would have been perfect, if elementary school kids weren’t so mean.

I could never remember whether or not they were attacking me because they hated me or because they were afraid of what they couldn’t understand. Nevertheless they were mean.

The teachers all tried to stand up for me, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter when they weren’t looking, when we were on recess, when they would push me to the ground, when they would tell me I was worthless and that no one wanted me.

I know my parents didn’t want me to feel this way, but I couldn’t tell them that I wasn’t happy. Everyone told me that being bullied would build character, but all it did was tear me down.

So there I went, reluctantly, to school, every day for five years until my fifth grade graduation. It was difficult for me to get through, not just because the academics were confusing, but because everyday was a struggle.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t have friends though. Jerry was my best friend. He, too, was considered special. He was bullied and he was beaten up.

The only difference was that he could complain about it. He could cry without his parents wondering what was wrong. He could explain why he was upset. I, on the other hand, could not.

When we graduated, Jerry told me that he was going to have to go away. His parents wanted him to go to a different school, a school where he could live with people his age that needed special attention. I think his parents just didn’t want to deal with his anger fits anymore, but I never told him that, mostly because I couldn’t.

I said goodbye to him and, suddenly, I felt sad. I spent the rest of the afternoon crying until my mom made dinner for me.

She told me that it was all going to be okay. She told me that I would have a fun summer with Jerry and that he would leave when school started again.

Her words made me feel a little better, but the ever-present fear of school still hung over my head.

I tried to tell her that I didn’t want to go back to school in August, that I wanted to go be with Jerry, but she didn’t understand me.

She told me that middle school would be easier for me because their special education program was bigger and better. I believed her. What a fool I was for believing her.

~~~

I hope you enjoyed this! I believe in spreading awareness of mental health issues and learning differences, so thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy what I have in store for this “series”!

Mother

Hello everyone,

my apologies for not posting next week.

Nevertheless here is another one of my favorite 5-sentence short stories that I wrote last year. I hope you like it!

~~~

“Mother, please let me help you.”

Her mother denies any assistance and, along with it, her mortality. The daughter drops her mother’s hand in surrender, knowing that even if she could help, there isn’t much she, or anyone, could do. Acceptance sweeps over them both as she struggles into her wheelchair. “Fine, come on, it’s time to go.”

~~~

I know it was short, but what do you think?

Did you like it? like and leave a comment below! Follow for more stories every week!

They Called Me Special (Part 1)

I grew up with people telling me that I was special. I didn’t know what it meant when I was little, but I quickly realized that it was merely a term of patronizing endearment.

It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t express my thoughts as easily as others around me. It was how I was born and there wasn’t really anything I could do about it. To everyone else, my words seemed strange or awkward. I just wanted them to listen to me. My speech impairment, of course, only furthered their notion that I was in need of special help when, in reality, I could handle myself very well.

True, I did get amused by minute things, like airplanes. I absolutely loved airplanes. I could read about them all day, and I did. All I wanted to do was be able to tell people how great they were. How they were a physical anomaly and way ahead of their time. Getting something as large as a 747 off the ground is a miracle, but flying through the air, controlled by a pilot, able to land at a predetermined spot was near impossible. But still these impossible possibilities are created anew everyday, people entrusting their lives in order to cross oceans. These beautiful bird imposters allowing families to be reunited, allowing friends to come together for celebration. It only creates more awe and wonder at the fact that the first ever airplane-

Sorry, I did it again. My parents told me that I fixate on things; it’s part of what made me special, the fixation. I suppose the only reason I fixated on airplanes was because I oftentimes felt like a plane myself, pushing through the barriers that this life threw at me. I started stationary, oftentimes people laughed at the notion that I could even get off the ground. But with dedication, with persistence, with the right people behind me, I was able to fly.

They put me in a nice community. When I was eighteen, they drove me to a house where I met a nice lady, a few years older than me, who I would later find out was studying to become a special education teacher. Sweet girl. She left a year later, I never found out where she went, and I never saw her again.

My parents visited me from time to time, the length between their visits growing more and more at each following year, until eventually they only came once in the week between Christmas and New Years. It was fine though, I made a new family with the people here. Bethany was my girlfriend. We didn’t start out that way but she was like me. In a world full of strangers, it was freeing to be see someone misunderstood like me, desperate for others to see me like how I saw myself, as someone who isn’t fragile, someone who wasn’t in need of constant companionship. I appreciated all the support, but it oftentimes felt overbearing and I would get frustrated. Nevertheless the caregivers came and went. Bethany and I grew closer to the extent that the caregivers would allow. We even got married!

I was told to find employment and I did. I was so proud of myself and everyone at the community was proud of me too. The caregivers threw me a party and it was the best night of my life. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. But then Bethany got sick, really sick. This was years down the line, after we’ve been working for a while.

We were both starting to get older, both starting to look like our parents. I could tell because she was always screaming. The screaming wouldn’t stop. She was in so much pain that she couldn’t even walk. They eventually drove Bethany to the hospital and, despite my pleas, they said that I had to wait back at the community.

Couldn’t they tell that I wanted to know how she was? Didn’t they know that I loved her?

They told me that I could see her, but when I did, I would have to tell her goodbye. I told them, or tried to tell them, that I would tell her goodbye when I leave because there’s no point in saying goodbye when your first arrive, that doesn’t make for decent conversation.

They let me in to see her and she smiled the biggest smile I’ve seen in a long time. We hugged each other and she told me, tried to tell me, that she loved me. I told her that I loved her too. We talked about airplanes. I got a new model for my birthday party last week and I told her that I would wait until she got home to open it and start building it. She died later that night, after I left.

When I got home I felt a strong pain in my gut. It felt like a stomachache, but worse, and it didn’t go away no matter how many antacid medicines I took. I couldn’t even eat. They told me that I should be happy that she was in a “better place”, but how could I be happy when she wasn’t with me? The reality of the situation was dawning on me slowly and I was realizing that my best friend was never coming back, that the model airplane would never be built.

My parents came by shortly after Bethany died. They told me that it was going to be okay, that they understood, but they didn’t. I lived in a world where nobody understood me and I was forced with the label of “special”, but Bethany understood, she knew what it was like.

I died a few years later, it was sad. My parents were there and my sister. They all cried as I closed my eyes. They cried but I smiled. I smiled because I knew that I was going to go back to my love, to Bethany.

I had a good life. I had a special life. My mom told me once that I should forget about the bad parts of my life and remember the good parts. I told her, I tried to tell her, that we should always remember the good and the bad because without the bad there can be no good. With light inevitably comes the shadow. So I am here to tell you my story now that I can properly convey my thoughts into sensible words (this language thing is pretty nice and I’m very upset I couldn’t utilize this back when I was alive).

I am here to tell you the good and the bad. As for right now, think of this as an overview.

I lived and I died, now I can reflect. My life truly was fantastic. I guess that’s why they called me special.

Thank you all for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it and are ready for more from this story, because I have A LOT of inspiration from this particular character. I have been thinking about this story for a while and how it would be told, and I’m excited to say that I’m actually working on the rest of it for you. I’m not sure how many parts it will be in, but as for now I hope you enjoyed part one of “They Called Me Special”.

Dear You

She has a note in her hand, she is checking to see if anyone is coming. The note reads,

Dear you,

I know this is terrible timing, but I didn’t want you to go through with this until you knew the truth, about everything. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it needs to be said, for my own sanity, however I have the feeling you already know what I’m going to say.

I love you.

There, it’s out in the open. Like I said, not the best timing, I know.

We tried to make it work in the past and decided that we would be better as friends, but I always knew there was something missing. I know now that, when you are with me, I am whole.

Tomorrow I will not be sitting in the pews while you say your vows because I would be compelled to stand up and object to your love. I dream sometimes of that objection, of you realizing that I am the one for you and coming down to embrace me. In my dream, we run off into the sunset together and never look back at the world we left behind.

I know this dream is false hope, but is dreaming of the impossible worse than living a life dulled to imagination? I think not.

My heart is burdened by your “love” but I know that, if it is what you want, I cannot stop you. I only wish to tell you the truth so that you can make an educated decision on the rest of your life. If you read this and decide that I am the one for you, I will be waiting for you on the corner where we met. I’ll wait until sundown and, if that comes to pass and I still haven’t seen you, I will understand that you will have made your choice.

Until then I give you my love and my hopes that you make the best decision for yourself.

Signed with all my love,

You Know Who

She leans over and pushes it under the doorway, immediately regretting the decision to embrace the truth. Nevertheless it’s too late now. All she can do is go to that bust street corner and wait in anticipation for him to decide. He knows it’s right too, at least she hopes he does.

So she goes to the corner where they met in hopeful anticipation, in pursuit of a dream deep down she knows will never take place. But still, ‘tis better to die with a dream than to live without a purpose. And the rest of the day and into the night her lips repeat in a sullen whisper, “’tis better to die with a dream, ‘tis better to die with a dream, ‘tis better to die . . .”

Announcement!

Hello everyone!

I have a VERY special announcement that I would like to share with you all! The Pursuit of Bookishness is now on Instagram AND Facebook!

IG: the.pursuit.of.bookishness

FB: The Pursuit of Bookishness

This means that you can now like The Pursuit of Bookishness and get information and updates (as well as a ton of bookstagram pictures on Instagram!).

The Pursuit of Bookishness also has its own email now (thepursuitofbookishness@gmail.com) meaning that, if you want to get in contact with me, you can feel free to send me and email at the above address and I will get back to you as soon as I can. I am so happy to share this with you all and I am so excited to open this new chapter of PoB and hope that you can all join me in it!

Thank you for all your support! You’re the best!

Human Target

A knife flies by my head and lands into the board behind me. Thud. I flinch. He tells me not to do that but I can’t help it. I’ve told him before and I’ll tell him again, I can’t not get scared when a sharp object is thrown at my head. Nevertheless this is what I asked for.

He rears up and the knife leaves his hand. As it travels through the air I feel that all too familiar sense of dread as it sails toward me. End over end it travels, reminding me of why I’m here, how I got to this specific place. They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die and every time a knife is thrown, I understand where the expression comes from although it isn’t every moment from my life that I see.

I’m not reminded of the time I was kicked out of my house, cursing at my father for cheating on my mom, the tears in my eyes stinging the cuts on my face, given to me by my father’s girlfriend, as I race farther and farther from the house. I am not reminded how I felt when I found out I was pregnant with twins, nor am I reminded of the pain of losing both of them in a miscarriage. I’m not reminded about the time I was in the rain, living under a cardboard box. I’m not reminded of how I pickpocketed for a living in order to buy food for myself. It’s not meeting this mysterious man, who decided to give me a chance and let me be his assistant for minimum wage, no it wasn’t that either.

The one thing that does come to mind is the day I fell in love. The summer after my junior year in high school, sitting in a meadow, watching the wind breeze through the grass. It all seemed so simple back then. If I had only known what the world was going to throw at me, at least I could have been prepared. He was lying down next to me, making me promises I believed at the time. He would tell me stories of how we’d take the world by storm, with my beauty and his music. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle. The sun shining down on us and the world at our fingertips.

I close my eyes and am brought back to the sensations of that beautiful day, the most peaceful day, as the knife comes ever closer until eventually. Thud.

And I flinch.

100 Word Short Story

Hello everyone!

I want to start by apologizing to everyone for the lack of posts recently. Starting December 1 things got very hectic at school involving finals and such and therefore I was forced to take time away from writing. Then, after finals week was over, holidays were here and I thought it best to enjoy the time with family. Anyway here I am now and I have a fun little story for you all to get the new year rolling (actually it’s quite sad).

For this story I was tasked with writing a short story (under 100 words) using the words “tail”, “nose”, “cat”, and “handle”.

I hope you enjoy!

~~~

She sits patiently in front of the door, staring at the handle, flicking her tail in anticipation.

Every morning Janet, the human, leaves for work at 8:55, claiming that she’s running late, and every evening she comes home at 5:30, exhausted.

Tonight feels different, she should be home.

The door finally opens, but it isn’t Janet coming to greet her.

“Hello, Mittens,” the woman says. It’s Janet’s sister, she’s crying, her nose is running, “Oh something terrible has happened.”

In her hand is a note that reads, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry. Take care of my cat.”

~~~

Thank you all so much! I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it and incorporating all the words into it!

Before I go, I also have a VERY exciting announcement that I will be sharing with you all next Saturday! I think you responders are gonna love it!

Want more? Subscribe to The Pursuit of Bookishness for more short stories and bookish things!

Want to suggest a story? Like and comment below so I can know what to give you!

Have a great week everyone and happy 2017!

-blake lonero