I lifted my head to look at the comedian on the TV screen. I had seen her before. Her nervous, twitchy face. Her constantly cracking voice. SHe wasn’t funny before, and she wasn’t this time either.
Frowning, I shifted and looked more directly at the screen. Why was she there? How did she even make it that far? Three minutes on a Comedy Central stand up show. Maybe some guys thought she was pretty or something. Or maybe she wasn’t nervous before, and she was actually funny then. But why was she nervous now? Lack of self-confidence, huh? Probably.
The feeling of him stroking my back brought me into the present again, and I laid my head back on his chest. He pulled me even closer, then continued to trail his fingers across my back and arms. I closed my eyes and attempted to ignore my guilty feelings. It’s just cuddling, who cares?
I’m a very physically oriented person. I’ve always hugged and cuddled my friends. We’ve always sat on each other’s laps and snuggled without thinking twice about it. We needed love and assurance. We needed to feel safe. WE needed those horrible feelings to go away for once.
…There, a reasonable argument. Nothing wrong with cuddling!
…But still. There was something different about this. He didn’t do this with other friends. Rumour had it that he wished there was still something between us. That he was hurt by the fact that my newest boy was one of his best friends, and the guitarist in his band.
I shifted again. Uncomfortably this time. I wondered what Derek would do if he walked in right then and saw us on the couch like this.
“Anything wrong?”
He looked down at me. He always knew. He knew me too well, and I always told him everything anyway. Thoughts rushed through my head, but I stopped them before they erupted out of my mouth.
“Nothing”
He looked like he didn’t believe me, so I hugged him tighter for a second.
“Really.”
I managed a grin up at him, and I hoped it didn’t show that it was fake.
He sighed.
“Alright…”
I always felt like I had to force Derek to hug me… like he’d simply sit there with his hands folded together if I didn’t take them and wrap them around me. I had to kiss him. I had to do everything. He probably wouldn’t even ever call me if I didn’t tell him to.
And I needed more than that. There’s so much wrong with me. I’ve always turned to pills, ropes, and knives when I thought that no one cared anymore. And it was easy for me to think that. I would lay on my bed, and convince myself that everyone hated me. I never meant to… It just happened.
But a person pouncing on me and hugging me to death always made me feel loved. At least for a few minutes.
I always felt as if no one completely understood me. I hung out with the “punks”. They thought that punk music was the cure for everything. Nothing cured me. And they didn’t know about or failed to comprehend what I needed, and my comfort in my own blood.
He was talking about something, so I listened up.
“…And Dropkick’s playing around here in the fall. Awesome. But Lower Class Brats! Wow. Sucks that you’re not gonna be here during July. Yeah…”
He trailed off.
“Yeah, that IS pretty awesome. I dunno, though. I want to go to that industrial show on Saturday.”
He laughed in his special way, in his rolling eyes and saying “only you” way.
“Bah, I’m going whether you want me to or not, Lawerence”
He grinned, “okay, have fun!”
They called it my “inner goth”. My obsession with goth rock, my love for industrial music, and how my personal god always was and always would be Trent Reznor. They ignored my plaid miniskirts, medieval dresses, my knee-high black boots, fishned, and my obsession with collars and bondage. I usually wore baggy jeans and band tees around them anyway.
We spend weekends sitting around, making fun of Avril, Good Charlotte, and the likes. And then we’d go to some underground punk show. And talk about how THIS band was actually punk rock, and fuck, it was good. Or say that the band sucked. And we’d beat the members up in the mosh and/or circle pits when they got offstage.
And then I’d grab Derek or whoever I wanted or dated at the time and make out with him… ANd then get punched in the stomach by some one skanking around.
Those were good times. But I never thought I was “punk”. None of my friends did, either. I kind of wanted to find my place. And I wanted some one who wasn’t against my cutting and suicidal habits, but would successfully make me stop anyway.
Because I wanted to stop. I just couldn’t.
“Claire, I’ve gotta go get Rich. The stupid fuck got arrested again!” he laughed.
“Alright, I should go anyway. Tell Rich to spraypaint my name on the Savings Bank next time, alright?”
He smirked and nodded. We stooed up and hugged for about ten minutes. He left, and I watched the screen door swing shut. Being arrested for stpuid things like Rich did… That was supposed to make you “punk rock”.
I rolled my eyes and sighed. The world’s so pointless and silly. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door and jumped over the first set of stairs. The sound of the door slamming to a close came as I ran past the bottom step. In my car, I turned up the Clit 45, and I drove away. I knew that a call from Derek would be waiting when I got home, and there would be a lecture or five from my parents. And there would be crying alone in my room late at night. Things would be the same as usual. And as always, I would silently scream for change.
But, yet again, no one would notice.