I owe so much to that amazing teacher, Mrs. Barnett. I never knew my passion for writing until I met her, and she encouraged what little work I did turn in. Everything was so crazy with my homelife, that I rarely, if ever, did homework. That is, until the day she assigned us creative writing journals. In these flimsy three-ring binder's she told us that we were allowed to write whatever we wanted; nothing would be off limits to her. At this announcement the class gaped, literally shocked, at the possibility. She told us that the world's greatest writers had often been censored (Salinger, Hawthorne etc.) and who was she to deprive the world of another fabulous author? Social conventions, she told us, went out the window. Of course, I'm sure many people took advantage of our liberal-minded teacher, but my thoughts focused themselves farther than "what I could get away with." I decided to test her theory; that is, to create my own world. Isn't that what she'd told us? That in writing we could create whatever world we wanted? My sanity that year was saved by writing. I scrawled down countless poems and short stories, essays and descriptions which will never see the inside of a publisher's office. I admit, at first they were shaky. Definitely romantic (a style I can't help adhering to even today), and very surreal. Looking back on those works, it's hard not to laugh at my own naivetee and superficial dreams. But then again, there's a large possibility that I'll one day look back on all this and laugh as well. So I decided to include an excerpt from my creative writing journal, which helped me deal with the loss of my brother (no, he didn't die. If you don't know the story, why are you reading this?). In the story, he's shot in the head, giving him permanent brain damage. Although the character's differ significantly, my brother was the sole inspiration for the brother in my journal. This is a portion of the story I wrote, in which the girl visits him in the hospital.
The doctors say it's a miracle he made it through the night; we owe his life to a quick thinking student who dialed 911 immediately. Everyone keeps telling me to be grateful that he's alive. But there are so many things I'm not "grateful" for. I'm not grateful that the idiot who shot him is still out there, roaming the streets. No one has any leads on his identity, or motive. Which means that he could be out there right now, plotting his next senseless shooting. Or maybe it was someone who has something against our family, and he/she is just waiting for the opportune moment to come after my family and I as well. Every night my dreams are haunted by nightmares of the faceless figure who took our lives away. It's been a month since it happened; but it feels like it was yesterday, and a thousand years ago. Worse than anything else is the smell. I scrub my skin in the shower until it burns; I can still smell the blood. It engulfs everything; me, my clothes, all the rooms in the hospital. Even the food. I stab a potato with my fork, bring it to my mouth, and gag. A wave of nausea passes over me at the thought of that lumpy object floating around the acidic juices in my stomach. Ben, the hospital attendant taking care of my brother, is on his lunch break, and starts to make his way towards my end of the table. Hurriedly I push myself back from the bench and stand, knocking over my metal lunch tray in the process. "Anna.." Ben looks in confusion at my sudden departure, but it's too late to explain. I've already made my way to the girls' bathroom. The girl staring back at me from the mirror is a stranger. Dark circles outline sunken eyes, red from restless nights. Hollow cheeks give my face a slightly goulish appearance, and my skin is tainted yellow. At least I'm forcing myself to take showers and brush my teeth daily. I remember when my uncle died my aunt stayed at our house. She always reeked, and her breath was horrible, she forgot to brush her hair too. I always thought she looked like such a wreck. Of course, I didn't know what it was like; losing someone. Everyone keeps telling me that I should be thankful Scott survived, the Scott I knew and loved died the night he was shot. All that's left is his shell of a body, inhabited by some stranger I don't know anymore. I'd give anything to have him back; to hear him call me Anna-Bell and tug on my ponytail one last time. I miss the way he used to help me with my homework. Sometimes I'd pretend not to understand, just to have the chance to hang out with him. I think he knew too, because we'd end up not doing any work, just shooting the shit about any old thing. Most often, the conversation would turn to boys, and I'd beg him to decode the mystery that is the male species. He'd laugh and tell me that any boy dumb enough to give me grief was scum, and I deserved better anyway. In his presence all my shyness evaporated. He'd lounge in my green bean-bag chair while I poured my heart out; not interrupting or commenting, just listening and letting me figure it out for myself. That's all I wanted really; just someone to listen. The world never seemed quite so heavy after unloading my worries onto his shoulders; he always took things so gracefully. There was a quiet acceptance about him; like we were in some grand novel in which he already knew the ending. He was generous in that way; he never complained, or reciprocated with his problems. I'd never thought to ask. That was the thing about Scott; he was so giving by nature, no one ever thought that he might want something in return. It was normal for him to be inspired, and write his girlfriend a love song at three in the morning, or leave the red jelly beans from his packet on my bed, because he knew they were my favorite. Stupid shit like that; that's what I miss the most about him