the short story project


Jolie C.


I was eight when a teacher tried to kill me. He was the new P.E. professor, and apparently not an avid reader because he didn’t even bother to take a look at my sheet where my physician stated that I suffered from severe asthma. I don’t remember his name but I do remember we had to run ten laps as a warm up before a “test”. I tried to tell him that I needed to stop, but he told me that if I did he would failed me. Now, a normal person would’ve just stop running if they felt like their lungs were about to colapse and they could taste blood, but I wasn’t normal, I’d rather die than fail. Sadly somewhere along the way this phobia towards failure made me stop trying all together and now at thirty one I realised I hadn’t done anything with my life.  

I poured myself another glass of whiskey thinking about those sweet times in my early childhood where I used to think I was going to be someone. I picture myself studying, holding tons of books, wearing glasses and for some reason I always had long hair in those fantasies. My hair was too short now. As I sat in the balcony I tried to pin point the moment where my life had gone to shit, but I guessed I couldn’t just blame it on one bad decision, there were plenty of those. 

Maybe I should go to therapy, I talked to myself proving my point. 

After my sister died in front of me my parents had made go to a shrink, but I always lied. I invented struggles and feelings so later I could fake my progress, it only took about two months to convince her that I had processed the events in a “healthy” way. The idea of going to a therapist again (and tell the truth) gave me nauseas. 

Sometimes I had these random urges to disappear, buy a ticket to the other side of the world and fabricate another life, one where I was interesting, funny, charismatic, fearless and admired. I wished I could leave and not tell anyone, I wished to be a mystery in people’s mind. Where did she go? What happened to her?  They’d think, my parents would yell and blame each other, it will be dramatic and intense. It would made me worthy of being talked about. 

The sky was pink and purple, the air was still humid from the rain and the trees were losing their leaves with the wind. I tucked myself tighter on my blanket and took a long sip of my drink to fight the cold. “I feel lost ” one of the voices inside me thought. 

Me too, I agreed out loud. 




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