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The ordinary story of Michael. . .whats-his-name.

By Chris Picreame All Rights Reserved ©

Drama / Romance


When you have no friends you never expect to get the girl which is fine by me until the girl makes a point to show me how much the world hates me . . thats when it starts to hurt.

Less than ordinary.

The crowds converge into chaos, bickering voices challenging each other with each sentence increasing a decibel. A constant stream of taunts, dares and arguments engulfing me competing to be heard above the others as we march despondently to our next classes. The mayhem, this bedlam, is just ordinary. An ordinary process in an ordinary day for an ordinary kid. The bell sounds, the teachers shout, my fellow inmates keep the same disheartened pace, still shouting and barking. This eternal damnation is just a cycle of infinitude- loud infinitude and I’m just a player in this unending game.

“Micheal Jones get to class!” orders some anonymous tyrant as I rush through the sea of bodies.

Welcome to Dutten High School where the students are lower than their teachers expectations and I am certainly no exemption. When I reach class no one notices my lateness, no one greets me, no one even notices me at all- not that I notice. Every class I sit alone, in the breaks I eat alone, during sport I drift alone and my day just continues on the same as all that preceded it and all that will follow it. A day alone surrounded by others.

Why your still reading this I honestly don’t know, I am the most less-than-ordinary person you could find. I am no one who you don’t know, who is no where in your radar. You don’t want to know me- trust me I know me and can tell you this- and why you have wasted you time so far is also beyond me. My world is a monotonous, anticlimactic train wreck in which everyone but me ends up winning so if your into watching other peoples pain by all means enjoy.

The computer buzzes to life moaning in protest as I force it into being- I can relate- and I flick through the marking rubric for my assignment meaning to read but instead letting my mind drift to a happier place.

A place where the teachers knew me, where people noticed when I wasn’t there, where people greeted me at the school gates, in the hallways, in the canteen, wherever it doesn’t matter. A place where I could have a girl- the girl- and where she would sit on my unmade bed laughing at some ridiculous comment I’d made in a bid to impress her, her and only her can help me out of this hell.


The shrill, piercing sound resonates through the air breaking my silent reprieve and I type in thoughtless search phrases writing answers into my activity book.

I hear a car pulling in next door and go to my window pulling up my blind as she makes her way up her front steps.

If I can share in common two beliefs of one of the worst men in history it would be two things. No. one animal cruelty is shitty and No. two blonde hair and blue eyes are the most beautiful combination in the world.

She’s strawberry blonde technically but as the late afternoon sun shrouding her ethereal being in golden rays turning her hair into a golden crown swaying in the wind. Her eyes are artic glaciers casting their cool gaze across the world, unbelievably clear and unbelievably beautiful. Elizabeth-Rose Caraway, the name of an angel that fits its beautiful appearance. One day she’ll let me call her Rose like she makes all her friends. One day I won’t need to watch her through a window because I’ll be with her outside the window. I’ll be the one in the backseat, the one who walks her to her door and holds it open for her. I won’t need to imagine her in my life, she’ll be in my life-no she’ll be my life.

Goodbye Rose, Elizabeth-Rose, my love, my future life. I say silently as she closes the door behind her. It would be creepy to watch her in her room, only stalkers do that.

So instead I watch her window, I don’t look into to it, I don’t stare at it. I glance at it every known then- only for a few seconds- I mean come on she might not even be in there. Every few minutes until at last the curtains are drawn, no light lining them and I thank God for her extraordinary presence in my less than ordinary life.

I creep into the kitchen and steal some food for my meal. Before going back to my room to spend a restless night in the space between sleep and wakefulness, a less than ordinary ending to a less than ordinary day.

Back into the haze of sleep deprived wakefulness as I take a quick shower, extra cold, and keep moving in fear I’ll fall asleep. Should I take the bus and sit alone like a loser next to some fat hypocrite, ride a bike to school to be taunted about my lack of car or walk to school so that when I arrive I’ll smell like a camel urinating in a sand storm? I take the last option as no one will be staying near enough to me to notice the stench anyway and its better than be reminded I have no friends earlier. Suffering due to phenomena ensures that I won’t forget it any time soon but I couldn’t really care less at the moment. Its Wednesday morning, the day where I’ve had half a week at school and still have half a week to go in which case I can’t say “All well I’ve only been hear for a day” or “All well I’ve only got a day left”, Wednesday disputably the worst day of the week.

Hacking my way through the forest of civilisation I can feel the stares on me, its as if there’s a bright neon sign for everyone to see that pulses and even comes complete with the stupid cartoon arrow and ”LOSER" written in black, dyslexic font. I know for sure that they can smell the loner, it’s like a signal I produce that tells everyone what I am. The closer I get to the school the worse it is because the more people who know roughly who I am, at least who I’m supposed to be. Everyone stares at everything, me, others, phones, objects, whatever they can find to stare at. Everyone talks, at others, phones, I pods, whatever. And so the world turns into a noisy, chaotic, humiliation pit where everyone watches your faliures play out in live time. But they don’t really watch, well me at least, instead they choose the least appropriate time to look which makes their reactions so much more damaging.

The corridors are a trap, ensuring that everyone who doesn’t like everyone else is forced to co-operate together in the one tight space. It’s an arena allowing the bullies perfect circumstance and offers their victims no retreat, it forces us to interact despite our obvious adversities and they lead directly to the one place none of us want to go. It’s a heated free for all that no one wants to be in. And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse life fucked me over big time.

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