stolen smiles // {cait}

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Terror is a heavy weight upon my shoulders, heavier than the backpack I've filled with others' belongings. I'm afraid that my father will open my closet door and see the variety of trinkets strewn across its floor, that my mother might realize I've been stealing that fake smile from her face and plastering it upon my own, that my sister, Aubrey might catch my nimble hands with those sharp little cat eyes of hers, that some boy at school might figure out why there is such little dirt beneath my fingernails, that the peacekeepers might catch me – oh god oh god they're looking oh god oh god put it back put it in the bucket.

My hands are closed around a small tomato as I stand upon two steady feet. Do they see the hesitancy in my eyes? Can they hear the quick pace of my heart? I look at the basket in front of me, knowing that is where the tomato belongs, where it should go, and yet I can't pull myself any further forward. Instead, my hand makes it's way into my pocket and leaves the small object there. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, as I worry that the peacekeepers may have seen, but it's a good feeling – a feeling that reassures me that I'm not just property of my parents.

Suddenly, they blow the whistles, signaling the end of the work day, and I rush through the crowd of leaving people, hoping to hide the bulge in my pocket. “Excuse me,” I whisper, trying to get hope to the safety of my room before anyone notices that I've stolen. Likely mother will come to my bed tonight and tell me, “I hear they were short a tomato today, Quentin. They keep very close track of these things – might you have seen who did it?” She'll be looking for answers and I'll have to give her one; I'll have to give her something.

I shouldn't have done it; I can't go home with this – those two things are the only thoughts that pass through my mind as I put my hand back on the small tomato and pull it discreetly from my pocket. I eye the many people scurrying around me, letting my sights finally fall upon a single girl – a very pretty one I must say. If some adult finds me putting tomatoes in their pocket, I don't want to imagine what would be my fate; but a girl my age? She can't do anything to me. It's too bad, though; she's pretty. Awfully pretty. I like pretty girls (and they all usually like me too). Surprise, surprise.

I keep walking, moving closer to her until she's right next to me in this sea of people heading home. I reach into her large work pants pocket and slip the tomato in, shoving myself hard into her small frame until she's sprawled across the ground. A concerned look crosses my face, as I pretend that I'd just been forcibly pushed into her by the person next to me. “Oh, I'm so sorry about that,” I say. “Oh gosh, are you alright?” I hold a hand out for her as gently and helpfully as possible, but inside I'm screaming, desperately hoping that she hadn't felt the hand in her pocket, and desperately hoping that she can't see through the commercial smile that I'd stolen from my mother long ago.

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[Cait]

She visited me again last night.

In a dream, come, just in time to wash away the fears for a little while longer, for each day they grow in size and severity.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

The shrill ringing of a cacophony of whistles jolts me back to reality, before I can determine whether it was her or me or him apologising. The faces of the only people I could ever love falter slightly before rapidly disappearing before my very eyes. I search for them, screaming inside my head, willing them to come back to me – to not abandon me any more than they already have. But it is too late.

Tired faces eagerly leave the fields, hurrying home before dark – before the real nightmares that haunt our miserable lives decide to come out. I look down at the basket placed eloquently across the dusty earth in front of me. Today’s collection is feeble, and as I take the worn straw handle in my aching hands – so used to carrying much more weight than I should be able to – I am pulled down by an aching tiredness and longing for home. I deposit my basket and take the all too familiar steps back to the only life I know, no matter the fact that I despise it as much as I loathe every other soul in this depressing place.

A shove from behind throws me off balance, and as I feel myself falling, I manage to catch his eye before I crash to the ground, bringing reality down with me.

Another monster, come to ruin my day.

He pushed, I faltered, and I fell in a single instance. I look up from the ground, my eyes accusing and hard as ice. His apology is brittle and fake – rushed words without a break in between what could he be hiding? – breaking as easily as plastic diamonds, meant for dress-ups and make-believe. I had never fallen such shallow nonsense.

‘I don’t need your help.’ To prove my point, I stand, already brushing off the dust, as simple as wiping away tears from my sodden bedsheets.

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She stands up without my assistance. “I don’t need your help,” she mutters defiantly, and I roll my eyes. Well, she obviously doesn’t appreciate my offer. However, I do find defiance quite an attractive quality; maybe it’s because of my own defiance, my own inability to conform to what my parents want me to be, even though that internal defiance is also the single thing eating away at my fragile heart. I don’t like it when people don’t like me though; maybe it’s because I spend so much time trying to make sure that people do, so they don’t suspect that I could come from a family like mine, a family that takes words and stores them in locked cabinets, only to be later sold to higher officials like our stupid uncle with that stupid smile of his.

Determined to make this girl like me, I flash another smile her way. "I can see that you don't need my help, but are you sure you don't want it?" I give her a short wink. All the girls at school like me, so why shouldn't she? Why shouldn't everybody? I try so hard, so much harder than girls like this who don't care at all what people think of them, so why shouldn't I be rewarded for that? "I'm honestly really sorry. I didn't mean to push you over. Let me walk you home, it's getting a bit dark." Except it's not. The sun is barely at the edge of the ever-so-blue sky, and she probably notices that my statement was false too, but I don't care! well, actually I do. I care all too much about getting this girl to like me.

#lazy

[Cait]

Although sunlight still seeps through the clouds softly lining the sky, already I am beginning to turn cold from the chill of Winter’s presence. The tattered rags that line my body do not provide a substantial defense against the biting cold, and as I stand, carefully studying the boy in front of me, I feel my fingers begin to freeze. Soon enough the cold will spread through my body, yet will it be any different to the blizzard constantly raging inside of me?

I was not to find out today.

Social interaction was never something I had been good with – especially not with people I had only just encountered. The sight of the boy makes me nervous, his earnest facial expressions alerting me to secrets hidden beneath his surface that I cannot see.

Yet.

His words sound odd, as if they were stolen and he was merely mimicking words he had heard through the grapevine. As he rambles, I feel nothing but indifference towards this boy, who mustn’t be any older than I. I listen to his soft, hushed words, but my mind is wandering, begging my thoughts to remain intact, for the toppling tower of hatred threatens to fall to the ground once again, dragging anything and everything in its way down with it. He risks being crushed by forgotten dreams and hopeless wishes the longer he stays here, convincing me to make sense of his foolish words. Of course, I am positive I do not want this nobody’s help – he, however, is too conceited to see that.

I walk away wordlessly; he follows aimlessly. Determined to prove a point, I vow to remain quiet until I am back home, within the safety of four plain walls that suffocate me every day. There’s a part of me that wishes the boy will leave me alone and run away before any harm can come to him, whether intentional or not. But an even bigger part of me is begging him to stay. And not just because I no longer want to be the only person who falls.

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There's something about this girl that's almost entrancing and even captivating. I don't know the first thing about her, but every moment she spends pulling herself back into her thoughts, away from my reaching words, I just want to reach further. I don't give up easily - that's what my mother says. She says I'm a strong boy, that I got a lot ahead of me with my never-ending determination. But she says I have to be smart about it: smart enough that I'll know when to stop, when to let someone else win so that I don't get too caught up in things that won't matter days from now, years from now, centuries from now. You aren't a winner by winning, she says. Some winners aren't even recognized until long past their life's ended. I don't know what my mom meant when she said this, but I felt like it was important enough to tell you. I mean, it sounded pretty philosophical and smart, and I'm sure you'd rather listen to that than my elementary little thoughts.

People are always thinking, and I guess it just doesn't make sense to me how you can fill twenty-four hours a day with thoughts...and new thoughts too. Most of the time, I just think about food or the pretty girl that's looking at me or the fact that I can't come up with enough things to think about that will stop me thinking about how terrible I am for what I do...how terrible of a person I am for stealing and lying and reporting and putting on a face that isn't mine. I don't like thoughts; I just want them to leave me forever. Life would be so much easier without that dragging weight in my head. I don't want to think anymore; I just want to be and do and act and not care about the ending result.

The girl won't talk to me, she won't look at me, or even acknowledge that I'm there. I keep following her as she walks, waiting for her to say something. "You look familiar, you know," I say, but I can't quite put a finger on why. I get in front of her, trying to stop her in her tracks before she can walk any further. "Look, I can see your not really the friendly type, but when people don't like me, it's nice to know why." I stare into her eyes, desperately trying get a word out of them. I wonder if my eyes look like hers - strong on the outside, but so broken when you look close enough. "Nobody's gonna find you if you just run off and hide from them," I say, rashly. I want to say something more, but I know my words won't mean anything to her. What is her problem? What is my problem? Why is everything so lonely? Why am I still following this stranger? When will this little fake lie I'm living come to an end?

Good question.

#lazy