I was twelve when my mom went to the hospital. That was the first time I met my grandparents, they’re my dad’s parents, old as the hills, but they have no idea. Grandpa thinks he’s as wise as Solomon, sometimes he is, but sometimes I can’t understand a word he says. Grandma has pink hair. It’s a literal pink Afro. They live in a tiny house in a tiny town in a tiny state.
“Say what you mean and mean what you say.” That’s my grandpa. He’s right. To the point then. I mean to say, my life was hell. I felt alone and depressed, I dyed my hair black, I even cut myself a few times. My grandparents didn’t know any better. There that’s what I wanted to say. I said it, now you know. I can’t even begin to tell you what it felt like. So, I won’t. It doesn’t matter. You’ve heard of my “type”. You know the deal.
“I love you.” I wanted to hear those words.
Sophomore year of high school, I sat in the back row of an over-crowded, people pleaser, high-energy youth group. The place was muggy and I slipped outside, leant against the pole outside. I heard a noise behind me and there sat Chance.
Charcoal gray eyes, thick, blonde hair, smooth pale skin. He was the very picture of clean cut. I was the very picture of a wreck, a punked out emo kid. Loser, loser, hates the world! But what I really needed was love.
NonFiction
Created on 9-18-07
Views(132)
Story Rating G
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