Wrote this for a book over the summer. Not sure how I feel about it. Viagra line is hilariousssssssly bad. Named the main girl Blake but... I mean obviously every main character I use is basically me just prettier and more badass.
She then moves her attention to the car window.
It fascinates her. Watching new worlds come and disappear over and over again before her eyes, all set in a hazy lens as the pane is covered with fog. It would storm later tonight, Blake could sense it, not that it is some sort of super power. The low orange glow of sun was casting a sepia color tone on the earth. The air had grown humid and still, causing her long black hair to gently curl at the ends. Blake watched the gray clouds forming overhead as she tried to tug her curls straight. Temporarily, this is a distraction from actual life.
Too quickly and too slowly she is home. Within seconds she is in the house, in her dark bedroom, her lap top beside her playing classic rock and an old notebook is clutched tightly in her hand. Across from her is a large mirror, where she studies. She studies the asymmetry of her face, the small bumps and crevices on her skin, the black clogged pores on the tip of her imbalanced nose, and the crooked part in her hair. To everyone else, Blake was a beautiful girl. She was short and petite, but she wasn't an obvious pretty, either. Her smile stayed with you, though her teeth weren't perfectly white or perfectly straight. Her skin was fair without seeming pale even against her black hair. Her eyebrows were thick but didn't dominate her large, deep blue eyes. Her eyes were striking and questioning, but painted with makeup. In her own world, she was plain. Not even close to slightly above average. Blake's disappoint in her mediocrity consumes her.
She opens up the notebook she had in her hand and begins writing the inscription on her heart. All those words so haunting and clouding her brain are released. Her insecurities, fears, and confusions. Words keep raining on the pages as it starts to pour on the road outside. She pauses to scratch ferociously at the freakishly huge mosquito bites on her right shoulder, the same one that contains a tattoo of a black crescent moon. She then continues to keep writing these beautiful lyrics of her soul, knowing that she has clarity and a sight for that which is typically unseen.
Suddenly, it hit her. She was writing down the fourth confession of her teenage broken dreams and realized it. You could see her shake off the first warning, casting it aside like spam mail from Viagra companies. But it kept coming. She didn't want to hear it, she tried to tune out her inner voice. No one wants to feel inadequate to themselves. No one wants to validation that their greatest fear is all too real. Blake shuts the notebook and stares at the cover. She had drawn an elementary taught "v-tree" and misshapen stars on it, making known to the world this notebook belonged to only her. Blake couldn't fathom the truth.
Writing is nothing. It's her favorite thing to do and it's nothing. It's her center of gravity and it's nothing. Why is this happening? Why is she being told this? Blake throws her notebook onto the ground beside her and cradles her head in her hands. This is a pretty inconvenient truth.
She's not sure what to do next.
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