Due to another story on the site, I have changed the title.
This is not a part of LadyDragon623’s “Desert Rose” story.
The title is based on the song “Desert Rose” by WhiteHeart

Storyline

When I was a sophomore, I had a lonely life. I was always by myself at lunch, and I never talked to people. The loneliness was half my fault, as I should've tried to talk to other people but every person who I tried to reach out to, there were four to put me in my place…what place that was, I never really knew where to find.
I walked into school one day and I was ticked off at myself on how I could be such a screw-up with my life. Here I was, spending my days in social solitary with nary a friend, let alone an acquaintance, to at least talk about how much life sucked at school and in general. I was about to go into mental l y beating myself when Emil y passed by on the other side with her friends, so she didn't notice me.

She was beautiful to me, and that's what mattered. To anyone else, she could be Medusa, but to me, she was just, well, beautiful. Emily had brown hair and she was tall, as in taller than me and most of the guys at school. She was very popular in fact that she could play basketball better anyone on the girls or boys’ varsity teams.

I first “met” her while standing in front of the bleachers on a night that was so col d they were burning wood in metal barrels spaced a few feet apart. The cans were placed along the stands in what would almost look like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. Emily stood next to me at one of the barrels.
“And in six months, we’ll be complaining about the heat,” she said through chattering teeth.
“I was going to wear shorts tonight.”
“Seriously?”
“I am wearing Birkenstock’s.” I replied as I stepped back to reveal my sandals.
“Cool.”
“Freezing, actually.”

I’m getting ahead myself, sorry.

This purpose of this letter is to show that I have not gotten over the events that occur but have allowed them into my life. There was no reason to fight them off and in trying to do so, I fell more and more into my dark depression. But you got to understand and go with me on this and that these inner demons and my outer demons loved it when I contorted my spirit to fit into a basket.
And then, we would let those outer demons run a few sharp swords through said basket. Let me also state I was not in on the trick.

I do not expect you to to understand me
And no, I do not want your pity, just a listening ear, or watching eye, in this case.

You see, the real reason people stayed away from me was due to a scar on my arm and some discoloration to my left eye. The eye damage was due to throwing up a bowl of activated charcoal. The scar was from using an exacto-knife on my left wrist.
I was in the hospital for three days, then sent home after a psychologist told me that I only did it for attention.

That really didn’t help me feel any better and upon returning to school, no one knew what had happened, or at least no one asked if I was okay, even the people who saw me pick up the blade in art class. By the way, I was removed from Art class and into a kind of study hall in the library. This was a waste of time though, because I never had anything to study up on, but I was able to catch up on a lot of reading.

Again, I didn’t except anyone to ask me what happened because if I had, I would have spoken up the weeks before hand instead of leaving everything bottled up inside; allowing the pressure to build up until the one day it was shaken so hard it had no choice, it could not stay in, it had to blow up.
Much like activated charcoal, which I was forced to drink down from a huge bowl. Imagine having to drink a viscous, Wendy’s frosty kind of consistency “beverage” that turns your teeth and mouth black and tastes like absolutely nothing. And that, plus an IV in your arm, is the extent of your nourishment. Yes, I thought of ripping the IV out of my arm. Yes, I imagined removing the bandages from my wrist. And yes, I had this delusion of grandeur’s that someone would tell me that I did not have to drink anymore of the charcoal crap.

But, alas, that didn’t happen and so, yeah, I was back in school and living in obscurity. I kind of wanted it that way as I assumed that if anyone talked to me it would be under false pretenses or just to “feel sorry for me”. I didn’t want that. ‘Don’t touch me, don’t notice me now,’ was my mantra. If it was possible, I would have had a t-shirt made at the local mall, air-brushed in a foreboding font with those magic words.

I admit I’m dark but there was a chance at the light.

And yes, her name was Emily Martin.

Until next time,

—Kyle Jovankah