What If'?

Time Started: 4:58

For centuries, Science and Magic have battled wits. Things are proven, then disproven, only to be proven again. For someone who lives on the cusp between Real and Fantasy, it's hard to say which is truth.

It started with a dream. Nothing more--just the supposed workings of my subconscious.
Just my own room and my own dog laying at the foot of the bed I hadn't slept in since before I'd reached the double-digits.
Just another cycle of REM sleep.
Just the third dream I can clearly explain from beginning to end that I've ever had.
Just....

Then it overlapped again. Same fictional people.
Same ties of realism.
Same potential for a really cool story.
Same nieve hope that it could be something bigger.
Same...

And again, a third overlap. What if it was a sign?
What if it was real?
What if I'd missed my chance?
What if I didn't?
What if...

Finally, a slow ebb. The dreams returned to an inconstant randomness, ocassionally giving me glimpses but otherwise crushing every grain of hope.

Depression ensues. Suddenly I realized how Alone I am in this world. What was once thought to be a sort of mysterious User Name became the cause of epiphany.

Sincerely Doubtful.

An outcast.

Another tie to what once was--a movie about a character who spent twenty years of his life trapped away from all that is good in the world. He finds a commonground. Then, in the sequel, love blossoms.
But he isn't the same anymore. The writers changed him.

I linger on his past--the beginning of the film--and sing soundlessly to the music I'd grown up loving. I know now more than any other time before. I know the words.
It's not just memorization.
It's the passion behind them.
The way they fall off the tongue, one right after the other, with a pause just so.
The vibration of the voice box as we hold the same note, together, in perfect harmony, as it echoes through my very core.

The yearning.
The hope.
The silent wish that dies in the throat as eyes lock on the first visible star of the night.

A question of "who" ensues.
WHO am I?
What am I doing with my life?
When will I find the place where I belong?
Where DO I belong?
How can I find that universal someone without changing who I am?
Why must I always be...
...Sincerely Doubtful


And more dreams follow. No longer are they nieve and uplifting. Nor even random and sporadic.
I know exactly what I refuse to speak outloud.

I've watched friends come and go, watched them deal with the issues any normal teen would go through. I listened as they spoke of stalkers and potenial love interests. Encouraged them not with personal experience, but fiction. Things I'd read of in countless novels, manga, and FanFiction happened all around me.
And, like my fictional friend, I was looking on as though I wasn't even a part of it.
The world changed around me, yet I stayed the same. Still childish, still nievely hopeful, still Sincerely Doubtful.

And like every experience I don't know how to solve, I turned to fiction. Pages of overweight teens becoming invisible because they are only ever there. They find a place for themselves among freaks and other outcasts. They become normal.

Documents of Fanfictions where characters suddenly take notice of the quiet one. She'd been there from day one, blending into the background without ever reaching for the spotlight.

The story of my mirror image thrown into a perfect world and saved by the perfect hero. An imperfect girl that somehow takes center stage in a perfect world.

But none of these will ever see the light of day, so why bother?
There are days when I want to delete every last one of them. Do you know why? Because every last one of them stares back at me in four big, red, bold letters.
P
I
T
Y
Self-inflicted or no, that's all any one of them can amount to. Pity and lack of self- confidence and mediocre fiction skills.
Because I'm not trying to make it nice. I'm making the pain go away without ever thinking of picking up a razor or having to deal with suicidal thoughts.
It's my relief, and I don't dare let a soul read them, because--however mediocre the writing may be--every last letter holds my pain, my hope, and my soul. I still hold that nieve belief that someday my prince will come. My Prince Charming will sweep me off my feet and carry me off to his castle.

Or so I used to think. But I have to wonder; if I dreamed of a Prince Charming for three nights in a row almost a year ago and still haven't seen hide nor hail of him...is it better to wait for another? Is it better to live with Prince Charming or the one who may have hero status but doesn't qualify for neither 'Prince Charming' nor 'Knight in Shining Armor'?

My thoughts wander again to my fictional friend. The 'me' were I a character of fantasy. Of an adaptation.
Is it better to give up? Should I just condemn myself to never fitting in? Is it written in stone that I must always be Sincerely Doubtful?

Depression grows. It ebbs from myself and my friends, radiating in waves through the haunted halls. Some days make the tide roll out, and I almost remember the good old days.

Kindergarten. Everything new, a touch of familiarity. Teachers and staff alike know me as "Her Little Sister" but I don't mind because it's part of who I am. A friendship strengthens into an unbreakable connection. We were separated by a mere three blocks for half the day, then inseparable for all of school hours.

First Grade. This is my home away from home. I feel free and happy and confidant. A new principal brings with him a friendlier atmosphere. He knows everyone by first name and sits with my friends and I for a few minutes at least once a week every lunch.

Second Grade. We aren't in the same class this year. Things try and force us apart but we stay strong. I quickly realize how much better she is at everything. Three levels ahead at reading, started GATE, can already write multi-page book reports. She understands cursive. I'm a little jealous, but I idolize her more than anything. She keeps me going--I want to be at her level too so she isn't the only one up there. So I don't get left behind.

Third Grade. New friends join old. Lunches are spent on the outside stage, pretending we can see ghosts and that pigeons talk. I trade lunches with her most days, always offering to share with my favorite principal. My sister's last year before Middle School, next year means being known as myself and not "Little Sister".

Fourth Grade. Moved houses. Teacher is a little weird, but we have the same class again. I start to walk to my dad's work every day after school. We hang out at The Tree. Dig little holes as we talk about anything and everything. Bloody Mary comes to mind. Telling ghost stories with the boys. I get scared, but that's okay. I'm safe. I'm with family. I'm home.

Fifth Grade. He's gone. A new principal--powerhungry and strict. People begin to change around me. I try and stay the same. Broken into. The dream of someone trying to come in. She joins Hula class. Asks if I think there's anything wrong with my parents. I didn't understand her pain. The gap grows a little.
"Why'd you have to have to be such a stuck-up and snitch?"
The world begins to spiral down.

Sixth Grade. New school. Teachers scare me. No classes together. Don't talk at lunch. I stopped talking except to answer questions. Fiction. Pretend like the world doesn't exist. The gap grows and I can't stop it. Is she pulling away? Am I? The shell forms.

Seventh Grade. New school again. People walk all over me. I give up lunch money for "friends". Stabbed in the back. 'Don't talk to them. They only want to hurt you. She's gone. Is she better without you?' Stop the contact--loose the self-confidence. Singing and Writing. Let it all out. The world doesn't exist.

Eighth Grade. Same school. Always pushing. Do the best. Get it over with. Escape. Tried making friends, they all go away. Alone. Don't trust anyone but family. Locked in room, listening to the same song on repeat. Write it all out. Where is she? I've lost all sense of the world.

Nineth Grade. A miracle. Contact. We found eachother again. Each suffered hell and worse. Still, that gnawing question. She made friends. She lived. 'Is she better without you?' Seeing her every day, I find a little bit of myself. We pull through on shaky ties together.

Tenth Grade. I'm torn. Other friends begin the betrayal. Cycle repeats. I'm only being used. But she's here now. I don't have to hide. We grow stronger. Together. Torn between old and fake. Or is fake real? Is that who I am now?

Eleventh Grade. Closer. Together. Every day we talk, every day we grow back to how it once was. But the world begins to change. Everyone around me faces normal teenage experiences. I bury in fantasy. Do I hide again? How do I get rid of one who only uses me? One I gave all year to prove me otherwise, but still is the same annoying, selfish prep? Everyone close to me is facing major problems. But I'm still the same. Nothing's changed. I want to help. I don't know what to say.

What if you were trapped? What if you were a song on a CD, endlessly stuck on repeat? What if your smiles were a lie? What if your every day was spent comparing life to fantasy? What if you only seemed to be good at pretending, but were a horrible actor? What if you pretended everything that went wrong was solved by magic? What if the things that seemed paranormal were easily dismissed as a biological reaction to your point in growth? What if they weren't really?

What if you spent over an hour taking fact and turning it into fiction?

Did I? Well, only one person knows that, and I can DEFINATELY say she ISN'T one of the followers on here.


This has been a certified drabble courtesy of Sincerely Doubtful Productions