Diary of a Teenage Girl

• Fiction

								
September 16th, 2003. Misha and I sat at the edge of the river bank overlooking the city. 1 year from now Misha’s family will die in a shooting, and I’ll tell her that God isn’t real, and that he never did bear us from the souls of our ancestors. I’ll tell her the truth about life, and the truth about our corrupted government, but for now there is peace in the world, and she will remain innocent–Blind to those around us. I don’t tell her about my pain, it’s too much for her to understand or handle. She won’t ever go through this pain ever, not if I'm with her. ‘I will protect her.’ Runs through my mind; I don’t know who I’m promising, but I know I’m promising someone. Sometimes I have this dream, I’m in a car with 4 other people, Misha is among the strangers, sitting in the middle, she looks older, tired, and high. The other 3 people don’t have faces, just blurry faces, almost as if I misplaced my glasses. I sat in the passenger seat, the car speakers played loud music, vibrating the car. I don't tell her of this dream either, it's my secret, I don't think I've ever written it down in my own diary. Sometimes the surroundings while we drive change, like they’re collectible for each dream. But they end in the same answer, just like a math problem. . . The driver speeds up, trying to rattle us up before some big event most likely. We were screaming and singing along to the music. Our screams turned to those of happiness to those of fear as we went straight into a semi truck. The last words I could ever see were “BEWARE: Flammable Liquids Inside!” Misha was 4 years younger than me. I was 16, while she was 12. We were neighbors for a long time, until she moved to a different neighborhood. I often babysat her, sometimes actually hanging out with her. Her family was from Ludhiana, mine from America. We will reside together in this town known as Florence, Colorado. Despite our age gap, we were still somehow able to be great friends. If I could create a time machine and go back in time, to stop what she did. I would do it in a heartbeat. She was only a child, and so was I. Ricky was a year younger than me, he went to my school and was known as the angriest boy in town. Angry at the world. Angry at himself. Angry at everyone. I don't know why he was so angry, but he just was. There was this first grade where he got up and threw a chair at the teacher, safe to say he didn't return for a couple of days after that.I would tell Misha stories about him, and she would just smile and nod. “Avery?” Misha asked me quietly, a rock in her hand. I watched for a moment as she carefully picked out dirt from holes. “Misha.” I smile, looking at her face, waiting for her reply. “Yes?” “Does Ricky actually fight people.?” Her voice was quiet. A small shake in it led me to believe that she was afraid of Ricky. “No.” I felt happy to reassure her. Now I can't help but smile. I watched as she took a breath, and nodded, handing me the rock. “Thank you, Misha. Shall I name it Lilac?” I ask gently. “Like my favorite flower! You remembered!” She smiled with joy. Oh, to see that pure smile again. I would never see that smile after the shooting, after the hunt, after the slaughter. A small child would lean to me for help, but I cannot provide it; it’s just as bad as the incident. I will forever be in her debt for this reason, for not being able to provide any help to her. I’ll forever be her friend, but she cannot be mine for eternity. I know this now, you don’t get to keep everyone in your life forever. Some people are only going the way the wind blows, and you just happen to be there too. There’s time to move on, and there’s time to stay. We are afraid of falling because it’s rationalized to soar, and not wait for a breath. I have no idea what life is supposed to be, and I will be afraid when I know.
***
 Often I would spend my time worrying about the future, rather than the assignment in front of me. Now my book report was due, and I was 70 pages behind. If I stay up all night, maybe I can get to work on the report in the late night, and finish by 1 in the morning if I am lucky. Unfortunately I am never lucky.
As I sit and read, I slowly start to wonder what love feels like, what it feels like to chug an entire bottle of stolen rum, and what it feels like to be fully content. I close the book, and rest it on my desk. I bend down, grabbing the diary from under my desk in a shoebox box, I pick up a pen and turn to the next open page. 

DEAR DIARY, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18TH, 2001

Life is quiet at the moment, Misha had already moved a couple streets away, so no more visiting for dinner for a while. The silence is loud, very loud. I really don’t know how that is possible, but it’s everywhere, all I can hear is my heart, all I can hear is the air moving around me. My uncle taught me how to wrestle when I was younger, my father taught me how to change a tire, and my mother taught me that a good woman will stay in the kitchen, and that I’m forever stuck in a loop of cooking, baking, and sewing. They’re not necessarily bad hobbies, but it would be nice to actually fix a tire.
Sometimes life feels like I’m not actually alive, but rather a phone line listening to people. Nobody can hear me, since I have no speaker. All I do is listen and transmit, just like the phone line in the kitchen.

I close my diary, and set it back down, I check the time again; the clock reads 8:37PM. I couldn’t help but let out a small sigh as I slowly got to work. The clock ticks away and away every minute as I flip the pages, absorbing each word and keystroke. The main character reminds me of Mischa. I smile as I think of her. I wonder how she’s doing, I haven’t seen her for a while. Last I saw of her was on the 16th, when we were at the river, observing the city. We were talking about how her life was going, how she missed home, and how loyal she was to her parents.

“You know you can say no, right?” I ask, peeling a large orange for her with a small switchblade. She turned to look at me, and nodded softly
“I know but...I really prefer not to. I don’t want to disobey them.” She softly spoke, watching my hands as the blade peeled the skin off. It smelt of zest and dirt; ‘this river bank was my home’ I would tell myself. I wouldn’t let myself be home for a week if I didn’t sneak to the river at least once.
“It’s not disobeying them.” I softly chuckled. I dropped the orange in her hand.
“Then what is it?” Her eyes finally met mine, and tears started to form in her pale blue eyes.
“It’s living life. You can’t let people control you.” I wrapped an arm around her, and squeezed her. She remained quiet and ate her orange. All we could hear were the mosquitoes buzzing around our ears and exposed skin.
Her voice began to crack as she slowly began to speak…“What’s It like being a teenager?” I looked at her, moving a hair out of her face.
“It’s not great. It’s not bad either.” I’m honest. As honest as I can be. Even though I write in a diary I still don’t observe my surroundings enough to know anything. Life has so many similarities, it makes me even wonder if there is any true difference, a difference between me and a sick beast. I’ll die in a world that hates me, and Misha will die in a country that doesn’t accept non-Americans. She experiences so much more than I do, and it kills me. I can’t watch her suffer through the bullying she has to endure. It’s an everyday practice; I see, and and she unloads all the words onto me…

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