Ara Ara’s Mind

{AN: I wrote this in 2024 after finally escaping my hometown and being able to reflect on the things I as still holding onto in my adulthood. I would like to give my appreciation to Quinn who read through this for me to submit it in a contest. Happy reading!}

She knew she was different.

 She was too weird, too different. She could see it on the face of every stranger she saw. On her brother’s. Even her parents’. She couldn’t deny it. She saw it too. Her face, stoic and unwavering. Her black skin, splotchy and dry.

No matter where she went, she couldn’t get away from it. Someone would always ask her why she looked the way she did. Why she dressed the way she did. What went through her head when she decided to be strange. She would always be too weird to everyone who saw her. She learned that early.

She knew she was different, but everyone was different too.

She couldn’t tell by the way they dressed or by the way they talked to her. So, she just kept to herself. Prided herself on not having friends, not having anyone that wanted to be close to her. All she had was herself and that was all she needed. All she could afford.

She enjoyed hiding. Enjoyed being unknown. No one knew her but she knew them and that was all that mattered. That didn’t stop the loneliness from creeping in at night. It tried to seep into her dreams, but she wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t, she was happy to be alone. It was a blessing and not a curse.

She knew she was different, and she clung onto that for dear life.

It was the only thing she knew. She couldn’t see the people reaching out to her. She couldn’t see the people trying to make a lasting connection with her. She didn’t want that; she couldn’t want that. Everyone she had tried to befriend ended up leaving. There wasn’t enough time in the day for her and she knew that.

She became a mystery. A thing for people to solve. She lived in the shadows and hoped to blend into the walls. People saw her regardless, though she convinced herself they didn’t.

She was different.

She licked wounds that she had made herself. She kept people at an arms distance for fear of anyone knowing anything about her. She wrote letters to herself that begged herself to change, to think, to open up, but she just couldn’t. The pain she had caused herself was too great and too deep.

She began to think it was just the place she was in. That her town was too expectant and too small. She dreamed of melting into the crowd of big city. Of following the wind while everyone rushed past her. Maybe then she would find people, maybe she would stay alone for the rest of her life. It didn’t matter to her.

She was different, and that didn’t matter to anyone but her.

She kept herself from parties, from outings, choosing to be at home instead. Fearing there would be someone there to ask her some question she didn’t want to answer. Or that she was just going to stand alone in the corner for the whole event. Somebody would see her and say something. Or try to bring her out into the crowd. Or just try to talk to her in general and what was she going to say?

Embarrassment ate away at her as a million reasons to lock herself in her room became apparent. She dispelled her want for friends with teaching herself cursive and math. She became her own prisoner.

She was different, and that’s what made her ignorant.

Being alone made her a bitch. Every thought she had was right. Every assumption she made about people was true. Every judgment she made was justified. Her loneliness turned into hatred when unchecked for so long.

She didn’t care. No one wanted to deal with her anyway. Better to keep that going by being mean, than let people think that she was approachable. She was turning into a monster, a person who couldn’t deal with their never-ending emotions and took that out on other people. The type of person she would hate, she did hate.

She was different, but that was no excuse.

She was convinced that no one liked her. That people were expecting her to be exactly as she was. A mean, unrelenting person who never thought to hold their tongue. She ignored the moments when that wasn’t true, when people could clearly see it was an act.

She created a different world than the one she was actually living in. In her mind, people were going to hate her no matter what she did. In this world, she was too weird to be loved, to be known. She didn’t believe that she was interesting enough to keep friends. She didn’t think she was capable. She knew everyone would leave her anyway.

She was different and it devoured her.

She couldn’t see beyond it. She couldn’t see past it. It was the cause of everything that had gone wrong. It was why she was alone. It was why she forced herself to be ok with that.

She was too different and would always be. She made herself a cryptid, an alien, when she didn’t have to. She couldn’t give herself the title of human. Not when she was so alone. Not when no one wanted her.

She was alone now and that seemed to be the only thing she thought she deserved.