Free Take Me With You by Melyssa Winchester Page A
Authors: Melyssa Winchester
when I was in the middle of something. That’s another thing I can’t do. It physically pains me to walk away when something I’m drawing is unfinished. I have to sit in the chair or on my bed until the entire thing is done or it will cause problems for me later.
I’m also what my dad calls a perfectionist. I will rip paper after paper out of my sketchbook if even one mark doesn’t come out the way I can see it in my head. Visual memory is a good thing to have, but for me and my art, it’s trouble. I’ve actually broken down a whole lot more than anyone knows, hitting myself until I bleed because things haven’t turned out perfectly.
That’s the reason I keep it to myself. If anyone else found out about it and what happens when things don’t go right, it would just be another thing they’d use against me. I think there’s enough as it is just being in a special class. I’m not looking forward to adding more.
Stretching in the chair, pushing it away from the desk as I crack not only my back but my fingers, both tense from the focus I put into the last two hours of designing, I look up the minute I hear the vibration and watch my phone move on its own across the desk.
The familiar sound that signals a text, three low tone beeps in a row repeats consecutively and I reach across and grab it. Unlocking the phone and heading straight into the messages, I’m met by one I never expected to see.
Can I get that lifeline now?
Running my fingers over the keys, not wanting to waste a second replying, I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Always. Are you ok?
The response is almost as quick as the one I sent and despite knowing who it is texting the words, it still hurts to read.
No.
What’s wrong?
My mom told me something and its fucking with me.
Ignoring the language, I debate whether I should ask her for more information. It’s really none of my business what her mom told her, but if she’s texting me, reaching out and asking for the lifeline, maybe I’m the only one she can tell. Tapping the phone a few times, still not sure what I should do, another text comes through.
Sorry. Shouldn’t have texted you.
Her words, the way she’s taking everything back, it’s obvious what I’ve gotta do now. I can’t let her act like what she did is wrong. She might be the world’s worst bully but that doesn’t mean she didn’t deserve to have someone hear her when she needs help.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I type out my response.
What did she tell you? Do you want to talk? I can call if it’s easier.
This is the time where I expect her to go back to the way she’s always been and not answer, or better yet, say something mean to end whatever this is right now, but that’s not at all what happens.
It’s my dad. I can’t talk about it. Like actually talk. It hurts too much.
Having spent the last year being bullied by this girl and her friends, I’m the first to admit I know nothing about who she is away from school. I’ve always just seen her the one way and it’s hard even now, with the way she’s texting, to see her any other way. I don’t know what it is about her dad that she doesn’t like, but if she needs me, I want to listen and help.
What did your dad do?
He hurt me….A lot.
Swallowing the lump that’s forming in my throat, I do my best not to read into what she texted, but it’s impossible. It could mean just about anything but with the way my mind works, the image I can bring up easily, it’s almost too much to take. Is he the reason she’s burned? Had he been the one to introduce the lighter, burning her?
You probably think this is funny right? Like I deserve it after all the shit I pulled with you and your friends. Fuck. Why did I text you? You’re just gonna use this against me the first chance you get. Tell Kayden and Belle until the rest of the school knows.
No way. That might be the way her and her friends do things, but it’s not the way I
I’m also what my dad calls a perfectionist. I will rip paper after paper out of my sketchbook if even one mark doesn’t come out the way I can see it in my head. Visual memory is a good thing to have, but for me and my art, it’s trouble. I’ve actually broken down a whole lot more than anyone knows, hitting myself until I bleed because things haven’t turned out perfectly.
That’s the reason I keep it to myself. If anyone else found out about it and what happens when things don’t go right, it would just be another thing they’d use against me. I think there’s enough as it is just being in a special class. I’m not looking forward to adding more.
Stretching in the chair, pushing it away from the desk as I crack not only my back but my fingers, both tense from the focus I put into the last two hours of designing, I look up the minute I hear the vibration and watch my phone move on its own across the desk.
The familiar sound that signals a text, three low tone beeps in a row repeats consecutively and I reach across and grab it. Unlocking the phone and heading straight into the messages, I’m met by one I never expected to see.
Can I get that lifeline now?
Running my fingers over the keys, not wanting to waste a second replying, I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Always. Are you ok?
The response is almost as quick as the one I sent and despite knowing who it is texting the words, it still hurts to read.
No.
What’s wrong?
My mom told me something and its fucking with me.
Ignoring the language, I debate whether I should ask her for more information. It’s really none of my business what her mom told her, but if she’s texting me, reaching out and asking for the lifeline, maybe I’m the only one she can tell. Tapping the phone a few times, still not sure what I should do, another text comes through.
Sorry. Shouldn’t have texted you.
Her words, the way she’s taking everything back, it’s obvious what I’ve gotta do now. I can’t let her act like what she did is wrong. She might be the world’s worst bully but that doesn’t mean she didn’t deserve to have someone hear her when she needs help.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I type out my response.
What did she tell you? Do you want to talk? I can call if it’s easier.
This is the time where I expect her to go back to the way she’s always been and not answer, or better yet, say something mean to end whatever this is right now, but that’s not at all what happens.
It’s my dad. I can’t talk about it. Like actually talk. It hurts too much.
Having spent the last year being bullied by this girl and her friends, I’m the first to admit I know nothing about who she is away from school. I’ve always just seen her the one way and it’s hard even now, with the way she’s texting, to see her any other way. I don’t know what it is about her dad that she doesn’t like, but if she needs me, I want to listen and help.
What did your dad do?
He hurt me….A lot.
Swallowing the lump that’s forming in my throat, I do my best not to read into what she texted, but it’s impossible. It could mean just about anything but with the way my mind works, the image I can bring up easily, it’s almost too much to take. Is he the reason she’s burned? Had he been the one to introduce the lighter, burning her?
You probably think this is funny right? Like I deserve it after all the shit I pulled with you and your friends. Fuck. Why did I text you? You’re just gonna use this against me the first chance you get. Tell Kayden and Belle until the rest of the school knows.
No way. That might be the way her and her friends do things, but it’s not the way I