Loser
~ Soren
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” Matthew 5:4
When I was five, I saw a boy get hit by a car. It happened faast, too fast for me or my babysitter to notice at first. She only noticed when the scared and angry shouts started coming from the street. We rushed over to where he was lying on the ground. I clutched Helen's skirt, too frightened to let go but too intriuged to look away. My eyes traveled down from the boy's green eyes to where his leg lay limp on the dirty asphalt. A teenage boy came rushing out of the pharmacy on the corner and when he saw the boy on the ground, he became frantic. Crying and screaming he tried to pick up the child. A man tried holding him back and tried to explain that the paramedics were on their way and everything was going to be fine. The older boy frantically struggled against the man shouting that he had to help his brother. At least I think that's what he said, his sentences didn't make any sense but all I could make out was that he wanted to help his brother. I was scared. I was scared by the older boy. I was afraid of what would happen to him if his brother was hurt. Tears began streaming frommy eyes and I buried my head in Helen's skirt. I whispered to her that I wanted to leave.
Later in my room I cried for hours. I lay wrapped in my blanket in the dark on my bed surrounded by my only friends at the time: stuffed animals. I wasn't crying because I was scared, I was crying because I felt bad. I had been standing there for only one minute, although it seemed longer. Not once did I think about the boy, the boy who was laying lifeless on the ground. I only thought about myself.
* * *
"for man looketh on the outward appearance, but The Lord looketh on the heart." Samuel 16:7
On the refrigerator in my kitchen, there is a photo of me. I look ridiculously happy. The wide missing tooth grin, cute pink tights, purple dress, and pigtails all give the impression that I am a normal second grader. That picture is a lie.
I felt the cold rough gravel against my bare leg and the chain link fence pushing up against my back. From my place on the edge of the recess yard I watched all of my classmates playing. I heard the joyous screams and laughter and for a moment wished I could be a part of the fun they were having. I forced myself to stop the thoughts because I knew what would happen if I indulged in them, and it scared me. I fingered the scar on my right knee compulsively. Content to be by myself, I picked up my chapter book. Sometimes when I read books about brave girls who did what they wanted, I would pretend to be them. There was a small comfort in being someone else. Anybody but me was an improvement. I lost myself in the worn pages of the book and I drifted farther and farther into my fantasies. I barely noticed Natasha standing over me. Her shadow loomed over me and her figure blocked the sun.
“Do you want to play with us?” She seemed like she genuinely wanted to talk to me, which I was skeptical of at first. Natasha was the ultimate queen bee. She had long blonde
hair and perfect little outfits that her mother laid out for her every day. She had no reason to talk to me, let alone be nice to me.
“Umm... I don’t really-” I started to mumble.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’re gonna play hopscotch!” She cut me off and yanked on my arm a few times to get me to stand. Natasha’s eyes went from my red headband down to my scuffed Mary Janes, where they lingered for a second. I massaged my now sore shoulder. As she grabbed my hand and dragged me to where the other girls were waiting, I stumbled and my book fell to the ground, forgotten.
“It’s your turn." Natasha coaxed me into the first chalk box. “You know how to play, right?” she asked mockingly. I looked at the makeshift hopscotch court. The pink chalk had an almost ominous look to it.
“Y-yes." My voice wavered and I heard laughter behind me. I took a deep breath and as I took my first skip, I felt something connect with my ankles. I landed on the hard pavement. I tried to sit up. When I opened my eyes all I could see was bright white light. All I could hear was a ringing. Then, as I came to my senses, I heard the same cruel laughter as before and I realized that Natasha had tripped me. I couldn’t get up. The little girls' fingernails dug into my legs and arms as they struggled to keep me on the ground.They were surprisingly strong for seven year olds. Old scars opened as my skin scratched against the gravel. I tried to keep the tears from spilling over the brims of my eyes. Crying would make everything worse. I shut my eyes waiting to be released but instead I felt a cold marker tip digging into the underside of my arm. The word LOSER was written on my forearm, stained with dirt and red drops of blood from the newly opened cuts that were so painfully embossed in my skin. Choking back sobs, I ran into the girls bathroom.
Hunched over the sink, I let the tears stream from my eyes. I sank to my knees on the cold hard tiles of the floor where the sobs racked my bruised body. I reached up to the sink to turn on the faucet. I let the cold water stream over my arm, letting it wash away the pain and suffering along with the dirt and blood. The water stung my open wounds and my sobs grew louder. I scrubbed blindly at the word on my arm, wishing for it to disappear. The marker stayed on my arm as a reminder of who I was. My sobs turned into gasping hiccups as I desperately scrubbed away at the evil markings. Gripping the edge of the pure white porcelain sink that was now streaked with red, I looked in the mirror. The dirty sobbing girl in the mirror wasn’t me. It wasn’t the the girl that I wished to be; the girls from my chapter books, the ones I looked up to. It wasn’t even the real me, the adorable girl with the purple dress and pigtails. The girl in the reflection was merely a shadow of me. The one that I didn’t tell anybody about. But then again, I don’t really think that girl in the picture is the real me. I’m not the happy girl in the photo with the toothless grin and pink tights that cover her scars. Like I said, that picture is a lie.
* * *
"In all toil there is profit, but mere talk tends only to poverty." Proverbs 14:23
Stuck to my refrigerator with a magnet from our hardware store is my vocabulary quiz from second grade which I got an 8 out of 10 on. It's rumpled paper depicts a smiling owl with a banner that reads "congratulations". I always cringe when I see that owl. It seems to say that I am wise like him, which I am not. At least, that is what my mother tells me.
"You'll just have to try harder next time," my mother tells me. Her harsh words rang in my ears. My eyes burned and I felt the tears threatening to spill out of them. Don't cry. Don't cry, I told myself. Crying makes everything worse. “I know that I've told you before that you aren’t very smart,” she looked at me expectantly. I nodded and hung my head to hide the tears dripping from my eyes. I silently cursed myself for not being strong enough to hold them in. “Well then you should know the solution for not being smart enough... right?” Not wanting to speak I nodded again. “Could you let me know what it is?” she prodded. Choking back a sob I was able to say with some dignity,
“try harder." my words were barely audible.
“What was that?” My mother asked in a poisonously sweet voice.
"Try harder.” my voice cracked no long able to hold in the gasping breaths that my now noticeable crying was causing. My mother’s hand rose and I flinched even though she was only trying to stroke my hair.
“oh sweetie...you know I hate it when you cry. It makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong." The soft but still somehow cruel words did not surprise me. She pointed a finger at
the door to my room. A motion that was all too familiar for me. Its message was simple: Go
into your room and work until you stop crying.
The tears splashed on the page of ten spelling words. The salty water streaked my handwritten words making them almost unreadable. Penny. P-E-N-N-I-E I spelled. The tears splattered the page and mixed with my pen marks; the paper began to cry. I began to write Penny over and over again as the words that my mother had taught me played over and over on replay in my mind. Try harder... Try harder... Try harder...
* * *
“I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.”- Lauren Oliver, Delirium
Abraham breathed in the crisp morning air and looked over at the horizon where the sun was barely showing over the snowy peaks of the mountains. The light gently touched the forest, painting the scenery with the vivid colors that morning always brought. He tore his gaze away from the beauty of the day. Abraham focused on his axe, taking comfort in having a task as mindless as chopping wood. He didn’t want to think about the awful part it would play in the task God had given him. He let the sharpened blade fall on another log and another until he had a small pile of firewood. He put a hand to his now dampened forehead
and sighed deeply.
“Daddy? Are we going now?” Isaac’s soft kind voice came from behind him.
“Yes. Do you have everything I asked you to get?” Abraham put on a fake smile and quickly pulled his hand away from his face.
“Yes! I have the blindfold and the knife!” Isaac was happy to have any kind of responsibility that his father could give him. It was all Abraham could do to not cry the second he saw the overjoyed smile spread across the frail child’s face. He took a deep breath to calm his pulsating nerves and grabbed Isaac’s hand.
“Let’s go,” he said with one last look at the sunrise. Isaac babbled mindlessly about nothing as they walked to the field. Abraham only caught bits and pieces of his ramblings. God’s words resounded over and over in his mind. You must sacrifice him... you must sacrifice him. He gripped the firewood under his arm harder, trying to block out his son’s voice for fear of sobbing uncontrollably.
Abraham pushed aside a pine branch and stepped into the clearing. He walked with small meticulous steps to the patch in the center. It was the only place in the entire field where no beautiful grass or wildflowers blew merrily in the wind and no butterflies or birds flitted through the air. He began to build a seat out of the wood he brought. He wanted Isaac to be as comfortable as possible.
“Isaac come here! We’re going to...play a game.” His voice faltered as he uttered the
words, seeing how happily his son was playing already.
“Ok!” Isaac left his stick forgotten in the grass.
“Sit here,” Abraham gave his son a smile as if to say that everything was ok. He helped him onto the makeshift seat and took the blindfold from Isaac's small hands. He began to tie it around the boy's head but his hands trembled and he dropped the fabric.
“Daddy, are you ok?” Isaac reached down and handed the blindfold to Abraham.
“Yes, I’m fine, don't worry. Everything is fine.” He hastily wrapped the blindfold around Isaac's face and tied a knot. He took a few more deep breaths to calm himself. He watched Isaac swinging his legs innocently and looked away. His gaze found the knife laying in the dirt next to Isaac’s stick. He crouched down to pick it up, noticing the cruel way that the blade curved. Abraham slid his finger down the edge of the sharp metal as he stared at his son, not able to tear his eyes away. His finger caught on the edge of the knife, slicing open his skin and letting out a drop of blood. The red liquid rolled down his hand. He watched, entranced it as it fell into the dirt below.
“Daddy? What’s going on?” Isaac’s voice caused Abraham to tear his gaze from the blood that now stained his finger.
“Nothing. Count to ten and I'll hide. Then you come get me, ok?”
“Ok!” Isaac answered cheerily, happy to be playing with his father. Abraham's heart ached, as he held desperately onto the last words his son would ever say. He wanted to remember him forever, even after he was gone. He looked at the knife, glinting in the sun, that had now risen high into the afternoon sky. Abraham tilted his head upward towards the heavens and whispered “I hope you’re happy.” And as a single tear rolled down his cheek, he raised the knife over his head and let it fall.
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