There's no people on this road, it is only littered red with scattered debris inanimate remnants of my vulgar memoir. Anything that resembled humanity was vexed and warped almost as though portrayed through a twisted mirror but the truth was that this was reality after reality. Or this was the quintessence of reality, the truth was more surreal than fathomable. For how I was tortured by the unbearable image of exactly how I would ride any of these brutally mangled bikes.
The school I attended didn't exist, it was blotted out as the world ended on the concrete step where my life ended. I suppose someone who was my adamant opposition would find this to be poetic justice. Even then what pains me more is the fact that my adamant opposition who desires my suffering to be so sweet couldn't taste my bitter happiness.
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There was a bush in this place to which I would find and confide in my only friend outside of family who attended this school. Even such a lonely and introverted individual as myself craved at least the slightest bit of comfort from another human being. The thought even now of hearing another's voice felt nostalgic. The bush is still there but now there is no one hiding within it, I even shuffled through the leaves thrice more but nothing would appear.
When first approaching the school I would deliver to her my art tablet and after a considerably long moment a hand would peek out from under the bush returning my art tablet. This was a signal the coast was clear from the group of those driven by the one who despised me. We bonded over the fact that we were hated by the same people.
"Hey" Her head would pop out of the bush and soon the rest of her, this was normally where would conceal herself until his punching bag arrived and she knew for sure that she was in the clear. While he was so focused on me Dahlia would kind of just fade into the background and be forgotten. We began as individuals with an alliance for necessities but somehow I had made my first friend.
Her eyes were always transfixed on the ground below, I was sure that it was because if she were to lift her eyes to gaze deep into the eyes of another that her soul would eminently burst from its already dissipating seams. Her encounters with any breathing began were brief and barely articulated with words that failed to compromise.
I couldn't identify a proper reason as to why I invested myself in the slander her mouth occasionally had offered. However ,at the least she was a sentimental individual regardless of whatever philosophical traits she lacked. At least her brief glances would indicate her love of my art, one of few nouns her eyes could remain transfixed on for more than a minute. That was our second compromise art in exchange for secrets about my love s he caught hovering about like feathers from eavesdropping.
"I found out yesterday that her favorite color is Beige." She adjusted her backpack straps over her shoulders on the pleasantly dreary morning. In a crowd of a thousand other teenagers she stood out like a contrasting color splattered across a canvas of gentle umbrage. Yet she still manages to be a part of the umbrage itself, that artist forgetting that they ever applied that color. "This place looks like how cardboard smells." She adds adjusting the straps again.
"That's so fitting, I have a beige sweater should I run home and wear that instead." My only flaw was my hopeless obsession which I now testify to say that it has dissipated with satisfaction. My breath staggering my muscles left to the point of convulsion at the thought of presenting myself in a color that Sattame deemed to be beautiful,
“If you do that then you’ll be late for school, the best alternative is to wear it tomorrow.” Occasionally Dahlia was my only voice of reason that remained in that world I used to roam. Afterall my older cousins rarely socialized with me and it was the superstitious Auntie who served as my only parental figure. “Speaking of which, don't you think it’s weird how the bitch four haven't shown up yet. I mean bitch three, since Sattame doesn’t count.” Sattame and the other individual who doesn't deserve to be named were only a few moments behind me when I had sped off on my bike
Even in my current state I don't believe this has any significance to how I no longer stand as part of the world where my Sattame is.bHow strong is my longing to see her again that even my distraught fantasies of embracing her despite fading are being desperately clung onto. Any memory with the mere mention of her name will temporarily suffice. So to see such the flawless face of an angel walk through the entrance even in my memories would fill me with a joy unknown to man.
"I believe that's her now." I cleared my throat knowing the unhealthy amount of other noises that would erupt from my mouth if I hadn't filled the silence. Dahlia had caught onto this method long ago and now glared at me with pure disgust every time.
"So it is." Of course Dahlia's soul would never reach the same peak of adoration the moment Sattame parted the sea before her as she entered a setting that smelt like cardboard. The pleasure of simply being allowed to place eyes on her was immeasurable. If only it weren't plagued by the individuals who stood beside her as though they deserved to.
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Olivia and Kylian, were not the center of the prevalent ongoing problem, and yet they've managed to follow me even beyond death. I couldn't even begin to comprehend why. At the time, I was aware (using that term loosely) that they had the familial bond of siblings. As to which one originally acquired their status and which one was being dragged along was impossible to decipher as both were painfully extroverted.
The relationship Sattame shared with each of the Bitch Three (the third being my mortal enemy) was complicated but easily identifiable enough. Sattame was a friend of my mortal enemy or more so his grasp was inescapable. Kylian was basically best friends with my mortal enemy sharing their love for torturing things incapable of self defense with a sadistic nature. Olivia was not just a sister of Kylian to wedge her way into the mix but also entitled herself to being the queen, and Sattame her loyal personal assistant. With that I have successfully recapped the entirety of the "Bitch Three and the prisoner Sattame's lore from fifth grade to current memory" in a single paragraph. Now that we're at a mutual understanding, it's time for my case to continue.
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