For Her. The only one that matters, really.

[sorcyress]

I wrote this several months ago, near the beginning of February.

Trawling through my livejournal the other night reminded me that I'd never gotten around to editing and posting it.

I still haven't edited. But at least I can post.

***

"For Her. The only one that matters, really."

You never realized how jealous I was.

I hide it with a flippant air, cultivating my inner weirdness. "Oh, I don't care about fashion, about make-up, about hair" I say to you, while secretly desperate for your know how, wishing that -just once- I could be the pretty one instead.

I mocked you because I knew I wasn't able to be you. Why settle for second when you can just tease first? I built myself into who I was because I never wanted to be bad at anything. I'm too lazy to be beautiful, so I had to settle for eccentric.

Besides, even if I was pretty, even *when* I was pretty, it never felt like me. Or maybe the problem was that it felt too much like me --strip away my masks, strip away my layers of boy's jeans and baggy t-shirts, my defenses of messy hair and no make-up, and what am I? I can't hide behind the image of a tomboy I'd so carefully cut out --no, I had to be a girl, I had to be real. I had to be me.

And when I was me, I had to find new ways to hide. I had to wring my hands when no one was looking, stumble because of nervousness, take deep breaths to force away the stage fright. All the while watching you smile and wave, queen of a court I was barely on the fringes on. Your confidence drew people to you, that and your truly stunning beauty.

(Though of course, what use is beauty if you don't have the self-image to back it up? You *always* had that self-image, you were damn fine, and damned if you didn't know it. Sexiness isn't looking good in a low cut top. It's *knowing* you look good in a low cut top. You *always* knew.)

I suppose I could've handled it better if you were just pretty. If you were just pretty, you would've been one of them, the ones I mock *without* any underlying jealousy, bubble-headed cheerleaders --you know the type. Everyone knows the type.

But no, you had to ruin it. You had to be smart, all the way from *elementary* school, when there only was one smart kid class, of course you were in it. You and I, we took all the same classes, all the way through middle and high, we shared nearly every teacher, if not in the same semester, in the same year.

And you always did better. You were better at getting the homework done, and better at learning the concepts, and better at doing the silly little quizzes, and always just *better*. I'm not nearly as smart as everyone thinks I am, I just look like I ought to be. You can be a dumb geek, you know? (You never were. Never. Dumb or a geek, really.)

You're still so much better than me at school. Fuck that we're 450 miles apart, at two wildly different schools. You're better at getting your homework done on time, and at taking real classes. Hell, I'd eat my hat in shock if I learned you got anything less than a 'C' last semester. What'd you get again, Kat? A 'D' in the easiest course on your list? Yeah, that's what I thought. You sure are doing a great job with that college education of yours, aren't you?

***

You never realized how protective I was.

I would've fought him, will fight anyone, who tries to hurt you. I did fight her, the day she called you a slut. It helps that I stopped caring about her years before, but she still claimed to be our friend. Not even friends may call you names. Certainly not in front of me.

Of course, what do I do when I'm the one hurting you? I'm so wrapped up in my own unimportant dramas that I haven't even noticed yours. I haven't noticed that you hurt, Hurt, HURT.

(And how much is my fault? More than I'd like to know, I'm sure)

I spent so much time behind my walls that I forgot that I'm not the only person in the world who knows how to make masks. I've never been able to go past face value, I'm not strong enough to push people. "How are you?" "fine" "Okay." Maybe I just trust people too much.

Maybe I'm just unable to read people well enough. I try and try, but really, how good am I at making people feel better about themselves? Apparently not enough -and it will never be enough- because I've made you feel worse, and that breaks my heart. That *hurts*.

I'll die protecting you, if that's what it takes (though of course I hope it's not.) But what can I do to myself? How do you fight your own self when you've messed up? How do you punish yourself for hurting someone who Matters?

You Matter. You always have. Always will, I suspect.

You're everything I wanted to be, Veronica. I'm just sorry I've never been strong enough to make it mutual.

Me.
MOOP!

(((And she cries, and cries, though she knows all the tears in the world won't make up for the past.)))

Comments

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