Everyone was young once, and so was I, but people tend to forget this of others especially as they grow older. They say childhood is the best phase of one's life. If only it were true. But the truth only applies to some. The fields are green as ever, I remember the wet smell of grass, the foul smell of blood, the crisp smell of the warm sun. Those are the memories I want to discard, but you remember what you want to forget.

Watching from afar, I could only be alone while they were together. Alone... together... I knew their meanings from a very young age. Kept at the margin, I could only watch and wish, wish for one day to be part of them, one day to laugh and gambol about like them, to share a drink from the same bottle and throw our arms around each others' shoulders while chattering all the way home. But I walked home looking at the trees and the birds and the distance before my house came into sight. I learnt the name of flowers and plants: begonia, thistle, plumeria, mugwort... I walked home alone, and alone is my home.

My hands grew cold and I started drawing pictures. They only treated it with mocking laughter, and I hated their faces and I imagined stomping their heads into the dirt. Envy is a dangerous feeling, as it can come anytime but it will not leave as easily. I was not envious of them, but of what they shared. Something I did not have and I yearned for it. I thought if only they would like me I would be happy and not ask for more.

A game of football is a cruel sport, for the ball chooses its player. The sun to them meant the game can continue, to me it meant I should stay indoors. The whirl of the ceiling fan soon disappeared, for it had become part of the everyday silence. When it rained, I was happy for everyone stayed indoors and the distinction between them and I was not obvious. But why should I care, they who do not want me? Soon after, I invented my own game, where everyone was my slave and they could do nothing but heed my orders, so I made them play with me before setting them on fire to ease my hatred. How they burned, their crackling skin, their pink flesh, their sorry faces melting and mixed with tears... Scream, scream, scream like I had so you shall know. Then I cried because that was not me. I could lie to everyone but not myself. Watching from afar, I could only watch and wish, wish that someday, I could be one of the boys. It must be nice, I told myself, it must be. But chances, like people, only reach out to some.

a little farther
5:46 PM Friday, August 26, 2011