Fiction...Saturday

Don't ask.
There's a lot of things that I don't like about this story, but I need to put something on the blog right now. While typing this up, I read a word that I had written that appeared to be "froe" I do not know what this word means. I am special.
Here goes nothing.


My feet are trying to get out of these shoes and my hands are ripping violently at the chains and suddenly, after years of tearing my fingers to shreds from trying so hard, I break free.
At first, I'm shocked. I run and scream and jump and I'm naked but it doesn't matter because I am so happy, for once in my life.
Pure. Unburdened.
After all that, I thought they might notice. They might see that I wasn't like them anymore, that I had broken out of the mold. I tried to pretend. I was like a clown, having all the same features but incredibly out of proportion, like them, only not.
I tiptoe between people, like statues, frozen in time. I'm the only one who's alive here, and I love it. By failing to live, they've unknowingly given me my own world to play in, to do whatever I want. It's fun at first and then I feel alone. Not lonely, just alone. It's not sad, but it is quiet. I like the quiet because it's very free and very alone, and I've never had enough of that.
I was born to a world of screams, passed back and forth between people who talked far too much for their own good and then I grew and they screamed at me sto don't run don't fall and later quiet down listen to me pay attention to me I matter more than you and then I started school and it got even worse and everyone around me was yelling all the time only now they called it fun and they called it recess but I didn't think like them and I didn't play like them and they were still the same even years later.
But it's going to stay quiet now, I think.


So, what do you think of it? Do I want to know? Hm...we'll ponder that. In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off at The Selby, which is like The Sartorialist's cooler interior design cousin.