- Most people had something to do after school. They were hanging out with their friends, playing a sport, attending a study session, going to a club meeting... they all had an excuse. But the girl with constant rain in her eyes sitting on the bench didn't. She was sitting cross-legged, a black backpack beside her, sitting atop a 2" binder. Her hair curled around her eyes, the shorter locks finding release from a tight ponytail. Her eyes were glazed over, her hands were tightly folded, and she looked lonely above all. Her name was Amy Roswell, and it was clear to anyone who passed her that she had no idea what she was supposed to do. She pulled her jacket closer to her, trying to force its military green to impress upon her skin, leave an imprint. She was bored, and she was alone. It wasn't unusual, for her to be wrapped in her own solitude, but it wasn't a usual day. It was her sister's birthday, and Amy desperately needed someone to distract her from the date. The two were on rocky ground, though Clarice often tried to brush over the awkwardness with a pathetic attempt to pretend things had never happened.
But things had happened, and Amy had never been one for pretending. Not that kind of pretending, anyway.
She bent her knees and pulled them to her chest to her chest, hugging them closer and resting her chin in between. The school day had been relatively uneventful. It was the same thing over and over, wasn't it? But she couldn't think herself out of this edge she found herself stuck on, precariously peering over the top to blink at the chaos underneath. She knew that, if she jumped, things couldn't get any better. But now, with nothing around her but flat space and a sinfully tempting sort of danger, it was hard to imagine anything better. Exactly, Amy told herself, things aren't going to get better. You just stay where you are, and that's fine.
A few years ago, Amy had lost her ambition. She had woken up, and the desire to succeed had evaporated. She slid by in school, keeping a B- average, rarely put her effort in anything... some people called her lackluster. And that was alright with Amy; she wasn't like the others. Had any of them seen their father fucking their daughter? Probably not. God, she hoped not; having it happen to her was bad enough, and she hated to think of others suffering the same way. No, she wasn't planning on going to college. She was planning on buying a one-way ticket to some faraway country and living on her own. Maybe Africa. Maybe Europe. But probably Russia. Something about its history had always fascinated her, for whatever reason.
"Hey! What are you still doing here?"
Amy looked up, allowing a flicker of hope to flare. Nope, it wasn't for her. It was for someone else. How pathetic. She watched them anyway, sinking her feet in self-pity, indulging herself. The speaker had been a male, which was why she had assumed it was for her. How many girlfriends did she have? This one was the boy she had seen around before, but hadn't taken the time to notice. He was tall, lanky, with dark hair and striking light eyes. But other than his eyes... he was normal. And normalcy always came with happiness; they just couldn't help it. They were a little shallow, a little superficial, a little lacking in depth and wisdom in the world, and therefore had to be happy. It wasn't something Amy held against them; how could she begrudge anyone for being happy? She just felt a little sorrow for the youth she had lost.
He embraced a tiny girl, petite and cute and angelic looking. She smiled up at him so impishly Amy blushed just watching them. She was the outsider now, the invader of a private moment. The two stared at each other. No kiss, no words, merely a gaze. It should be disgusting, but Amy couldn't stop the sigh that came from her lips. If only all of that were real. She still hoped it was, inside of her, though she refused to admit it to herself. Maybe one day. The couple had heard her sighing, looked her way, and brought their eyebrows together simultaneously when they saw that she was watching them. The girl took the boy's hand and began pulling him away, but not without glancing over her shoulder to glare at her. Freak, her eyes hissed.
Oops.
Maybe the bench wasn't the best place to watch people. Amy grabbed her binder, pulled on her backpack, and began to roam about the school, searching for a familiar face, a familiar voice, a familiar anything. She just didn't want to be called a freak anymore, and she didn't want to wallow in self-pity any longer. Even she knew it was unhealthy, and tried to avoid it. Which actually said something, really.