sage alabaster . d1 . fin

[arx!!]

sage alabaster . f . im 11 so stfu . d1

I punched someone in the face today.  Not hard enough to really hurt them or anything, and it's not like I did it because I was mad either. I just wanted to try it. Y'know, to see what it felt like, I guess. I'd never done it before and now I have. Simple. Or at least I thought it would be.

Anyway, I wrote down my experience as I waited outside the vice principal's office—I'd have to score it a 3 out of 10 considering I cried more than the boy who was going to show up to school tomorrow with a black eye. Besides, now my hand hurts and I've got nothing but a week's worth of detention to show for it. Why anyone ever punches someone in the face? Honestly, I have no idea.

When I tried to explain to my grandpa why I was being punished and not rewarded for punching a stranger in the face completely unprovoked, he got pretty upset. Not the kind of upset where I have to hide under the table until he gives up trying to catch me, but the kind where he invites me to play darts with him while he drinks and cusses about stuff. So it was a pretty good day.

My cousins came by after I'd fallen asleep on the couch, shoving each other into the walls and yelling about money and something else—I had to stop listening the moment I remembered leaving grandpa passed out in the shed. I'm sure it was something I was too little and too fucking stupid to understand or something lame like that anyway.

I make a mental note to do something nice for Mom later to make up for repeating a curse word in my head. And for running around in the backyard without shoes on.

If grandma were awake I'm sure she'd remind me of the summer I'd gotten a nail jabbed through my foot because I refused to wear my shoes. Everyone always laughed at that story, but I don't remember it. The scar is there though, so I guess it's true—plus, I have always had a strange fear of being connected to too many tubes.

"Sir?"

I tried to be quiet and gentle about it, but I had just dashed across the yard in the dark fearing for my life. Lincoln has always told me I should be, 'more afraid of getting fleas living in that house than anything.' He didn't smile on the outside when he said it—my uncle rarely ever did—but he did play his kalimba until I'd fallen asleep that night.

"Grandp-"

"Don'tcha go'n call me that."

"Sorry," I say, even though I'm not. "Ollie and Violet are home, they're-"

He cut me off with slurred curses and an empty bottle. I picked it up as it rolled gently into my toes. Grandpa flopped to the floor and began snoring again. I moved him so that he didn't look so uncomfortable, taking off my jacket and bundling it before placing it beneath his head. I make sure to keep my gaze clear of the picture of Mom full of dart puncture wounds on the far wall.

Why anyone would ever hate their daughter? Honestly, I have no idea.

I think about crying for a moment, only to decide I was too tired. Maybe I'd just make a molotov cocktail instead. I'd never done that before.