Her family was researched - I mean my mother and I to see if we have tendency to insanity. I don’t know if they’ve found something. I don’t remember how they researched me and if they did this at all. Perhaps they’ve found nothing as I’m still allowed to go to school.
I’d gladly not do this. I’d rather go to the cemetery or someplace else. All people at school are alive and boring. Except for animals in jars in Biology cabinet. Once when I was in my 5th grade I hid under a table in class and the Biology teacher locked it not knowing I was there. Through all long recess I was walking there and examining animals in jars. When the teacher came to the class she saw me and yelled at me. I wanted to ask her if she could give me one animal to take home (of course she wouldn’t need them all) but I appreciated her anger and changed my mind. Later through that lesson I was thinking in what liquid those animals can be kept. I found it was formalin.
Then I read “Pet Sematary” three times. I liked it very much. The first time reading it was even scary, but later not. Then I watched both movies based on the book. But I don’t like reading, usually. If to sum up everything I read on graves it would be more text that I’ve read on paper. Mother says I have some kind of reading disability; not dyslexia. Perhaps I just despise reading very much. Neither reading nor writing. My Literature teacher says my compositions are too dark (if I write them at all), that I talk too much about death. Once when I had to write a composition ‘How do I want to live my life’ I wrote “No matter how you want to live your life, you are still going to die”. I need not tell the mark I got.
School headmaster used to call my parents to school quite often. Now not. Possibly he understood it would change nothing, that nothing would change me. That number of classes I miss will continue to terrify class-mistress. (It terrifies my parents no more.) And so forth, school is restraining my freedom. Sometimes I go there, though. Biology is interesting sometimes and Geography too.
I have no friends at school. I have no friends behind the walls of school. I don’t want to care for somebody. School psychologist says I’m asocial. I have reasons to believe she is right. She says I’m not abnormal, just different from others. She also added that everything will be okay when I grow up. I hope not. I don’t want to be like others. I just want to disappear off the face of Earth and wish that others would stop sticking their fingers at me because everyone stumbles on me. I’m the weed in everyone’s path of life. I can be torn out, but I will grow up and continue messing everything up. And I find weeds pretty…
I don’t look pretty to myself. Maybe some features are so-so. My eyes are blue, no mystery at all. I’d prefer purple, or red. I dislike my hair as well. It is brown. I dye it blonde, and then I can at least look in the mirror. Though I wouldn’t say I’m a monster. Nose is normal, mouth too. Teeth could be whiter, but I don’t show them often.
I like the shade of my skin color. Some would say my skin has no color. Gift of my grandmother’s. I can’t be exposed to the sun for a long time, or sunbathe. Perhaps I myself would look like a porcelain doll but my veins are too close to the surface. I look quite pretty from a distance. Sometimes people even smile seeing me. They stop smiling when they come closer.
Every so often I observe other people. I think whether I’d want to live like they do. Everyone is hurrying somewhere and notices nothing; they don’t see where they look. I don’t understand how somebody could live like that.
I’m not suitable for this world. I was created for another. Earth is just a short pause. Why couldn’t I have taken the express…? I feel like I’ve left the wrong bus stop, it’s all different in here. I don’t understand anything… Sometimes I try to understand other people. I usually fail.
Every once in a while I think why people love. Why trust each other. I was in love once. Hit like lightning. Maybe it was for the best that I didn’t love him for real because my heart was broken. I am afraid to fall in love. I can’t imagine how I could love someone. I feel so… senseless. But still somehow I’m very thin-skinned. I don’t know who I am.
Someone has said that life is not for finding, but for creating yourself, or something of a kind. I was thinking about that for a long time - if I’m creating myself. I started to think about stuff I like. Possibly that’s where I should start with this. I imagine myself just like how I am now. I wouldn’t want myself liking popular things. To be fair, I despise some things simply because they are popular. I believe that majority is not always right. Almost always I belong to minority. I don’t believe in democracy. Democracy is all about searching for compromises. I despise compromises too. Though I like arguing because whilst arguing I can make people feel fucked up; I’ve already talked about that. Mother (when she is in a good mood and we act friendly towards each other) says I could be a good lawyer because I like to argue and I don’t give in. I won’t be a lawyer. I don’t like law. I don’t like anything except for dead people (and sometimes myself). I can’t imagine myself working somewhere. Because everywhere I would have to deal with living people; this scares me. Dead people scare me not.
One shouldn’t be afraid of dead people; one should be afraid of people alive. They scare me a lot. Maybe even too much. Sometimes I can’t even communicate with my parents. I think if people of my age have good relationships with their parents. I’m fifteen if I haven’t yet mentioned. Next year I will be (as I like to think) 1666.
I don’t worship Satan. I adore no one. I lost my faith in everything when my heart was broken. Of course, I was little and acted childishly. But I was hurt… teased at. I’m not sand where trails fade quickly. I am… cemetery. I bury all unpleasant things inside me. I don’t like to visit this cemetery but sometimes I come here to pay a visit to the dead. I have a habit to rape myself in such way. To remember things which made me feel unpleasant. I’m not one of those who can forgive and forget. I still can start crying over things that happened some years ago. Exhumation. I think it’s called that.
I catch myself thinking I’m mentally unstable. Only I don’t know what this means. Maybe that proves my asociality. Or maybe that means once I’m excited I can start acting like a chimpanzee (this hasn’t happened yet, if anything). Maybe I’ll find on the Internet what it means to be ‘mentally unstable.’
Internet perhaps is the only popular thing I like. But surely I haven’t registered myself in all existing chat-rooms. Because I don’t like meeting new people. I know some people there; two guys and one girl. I wasn’t the one who suggested getting someone to know. From time to time I find interesting people but when I read about them I lose my curiosity. They’re too different. Those I sometimes communicate with differ too. At least they say they understand me. And I would never have believed that – I usually understand them. Perhaps I ought to describe them to continue.
Zygimantas – he is Satanist, but he doesn’t worship Satan. He says he is just fascinated with the ideas. I understand him because I am fascinated with some myself. We both agree that although Satan is not almighty he is still better than God. Zygimantas’s name in all his accounts is Antichrist.
Roy – he’s punk and it seems that he’s also the only one of my friends who has sense of humor. Sometimes he makes me laugh – which is odd. He’s a little weird. Once he said I’m weird too; somehow I didn’t take this as an insult. Maybe I already knew that, but most people think of themselves as the normal ones and call others weirdoes. Later Roy told me he doesn’t communicate with normal people because he finds them boring.
Ula is the only girl I know. She was born with vampire teeth. She says she likes drinking blood. I like her because she doesn’t try to be like other people. Once she asked me if I could give her some of my blood to drink, if we ever met, because she likes drinking people’s blood. I asked her if all people’s blood tasted the same. She said it’s only similar. She sometimes makes some blood orgies; she invited me to attend but I said I couldn’t. I don’t know for myself if I would want to be there. I continue questioning myself if I like such things.
Sometimes I think I would like to met people from foreign countries but I don’t know any languages other than mine (not to count some Russian swear words and a couple of elementary English phrases but I won’t find friends ever writing fuck off).
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