Radiant

Radiant

Ashlee Craft

Ashlee Craft

Copyright 2014 Ashlee Craft

Smashwords Edition

Text copyright © 2014 by Ashlee Craft

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Ashlee Craft

Chapter 1

They're all radiant

Radiant like the sun

Radiant like the moon that shines above the sea

Radiant like the stars twinkling light-years away

Radiant

Radiant

But I'm not one of them

Maybe someday I will be

I read the poem from the page of my notebook and sigh. How many times before have I read those words? The words are part of a poem from a book I'd read a long time ago, a poem I'd liked so much that I'd copied the words down in the notebook where I saved things that made me feel just a little bit better. I don't remember how the poem ends because I didn't like it at the time, so I didn't write it down.

Sometimes, I wonder how it's all going to end for me.

This notebook of mine is black and has a worn cover on it. Inside, it is filled with quotes, thoughts that I had, and song lyrics. Anything that cheers me up, even if it is only a little bit. Because that little bit matters. That little bit is sometimes the only thing that keeps me from completely falling down.

Sometimes, that little bit is all that keeps me from breaking.

I cling to that notebook like a lifeline, because in a way, it is.

Those words, those words from that poem written by some poet I could no longer remember the name of, those words make me feel better. Because when I hear words like that, I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not the only one that feels that way.

I am not radiant.

I am not beautiful.

I am not special.

I am not important.

I do not matter.

And I never would be anything different than that.

I am ugly, and stupid, and fat. I don't deserve to be liked, or cared about; I don't deserve to matter. Everyone I know hates me, and they think that I am nothing.

But they can't hate me more than I hate myself.

No one could hate me more than that.

Despite this, despite all these feelings that are bottled up inside of me, feelings that I could tell no one, that poem still gives me a sliver of hope. The hope that maybe someday, some far off day in my unforeseeable and frightening future, maybe I could feel radiant. Maybe I could feel beautiful. Maybe I could be happy.

I laugh at this ridiculous idea. I know it's never going to happen. An impossible dream. A dream so impossible that it isn't even worth my time to try and imagine it, and yet, I do. My whole life, I have watched as those around me, those who are prettier, smarter, and better than me, have succeeded in life. I watch as I remain behind, forgotten about, hurting. But no one sees me. They're all to busy with their own beautiful lives to notice me at all.

Because I am a failure, and I always will be.

Yes, that poem makes me feel a little better, but at the same time, reading it hurts. Hurts me deep inside. The poem reminds me of all the things that I never could be. It reminds me that there are so many people who are better than me, people who are or will be happy. People who actually have a chance.

When I read that poem, I am reminded that I will never be like them.

To be honest, I don't really understand why I like that poem so much. I mean, if I read it for hope, why am I kidding myself? Why do I still believe that things can work out for me, that things are going to get better? Why do I keep lying to myself, lying that maybe someday things could get better?

Despite the fact that the poem cheers me up, it also makes me feel confused and obligated, like I am supposed to feel radiant, and beautiful, and important, just like most other people around me feel.

But I don't. And I never will.

Sometimes, I long so desperately that I will feel that way. Even if it's only for a few seconds, at least I would know what it felt like to be loved.

Because no matter what I do or what I try, I have never experienced that feeling. Things have never gotten better for me, no matter how many times I tried, or how many times I promised myself that things would be different.

How many nights have I sobbed in silence, whispering to myself these cries for help? And how many times have I discovered that no one ever hears me?

With every second of every day, I am reminded of this ever-present fear, the fear that frequently is so bad that I can hardly leave my room in the morning. So bad that it takes everything I have to force myself to even get out of bed.

It was that fear that makes me wonder this:

What if there was no point in even trying?

Despite the fact that I am a failure, despite the fact that I hate myself and my life with as much contempt as I can feel at all, I still fear this more than anything.

As much as I hate the thought of it, I have to think about how things really are. I am ugly. I am fat. I am empty. I will forever be doomed to a life of mediocrity, a life of self-hatred, a life of pain. I will be forever doomed to loneliness and failure. And I will never know what it is like to be loved.

My fear and sorrow paralyze me, and it feels like I'm standing on the edge of an abyss, an abyss which I could fall into at any moment.

And the sad part is, part of me almost wants to fall. Part of me wants to fall into that abyss, to give up, to fall into that abyss just to spite life, to spite the people I knew, to spite myself. Part of me just wants it all to be over.

So, why do I like that poem if it cannot provide me with hope?

Because it shows me that I am not alone, and for the time being, that is enough.

Chapter 2

Even at sixteen, I know that I am a hopeless case. There is something missing inside me, and its absence hurts. There is an emptiness inside me which has never been filled, and, based upon the way things are going, never will be.

In fact, my whole life, my whole body has a startling emptiness to it, like there's nothing there anymore. In a way, it reminds me of the sensation of walking up a staircase and expecting another step, only to find there is only emptiness, or reaching out to touch something, only to find that it's a pale memory.

Once more, I ask myself what it would feel like to be loved. The pang of longing stabs inside my chest. It makes me feel sick when I look around me and see the love I'd never known. Loving parents walking across the grocery store with their children, the whole family laughing and smiling together. People sitting in the park with their significant others, holding hands as they watched fireworks explode in the air, or cuddling close by a fireplace around Christmas. Couples making out in dark corners at school or kissing in front of lockers. Friends walking together in the mall, looking as though they had not a care in the world.

Watching as everyone around me spends time with someone who cares. Watching everyone smiling and happy, because they have someone who loves them. Because they know they have a chance.

What would it be like to feel that way?

I sigh and swallow hard, knowing I will probably never know the answer to this.

At this point, my eyes drift towards my alarm clock, and when I see the time, I sigh again. It takes so much effort to push away the tears prickling at the back of my eyelids.

Mother expects me to be up soon. I know I only have a few more minutes to remain in this silent reverie of mine before she will come in here and order me to get up if I don't go downstairs soon. She'll come in here and complain about how dirty my room is, or ask me how I could expect to make something of my life if I couldn't even get up and go to school.

Pulling my pillow over my head, as though doing so will offer me some sort of protection, a place to hide, I begin thinking about dreams. The dreams you've got inside of you.

When I think about it, I realize I have no dreams. If I look inside me to the place where the dreams should have been, I find only emptiness.

Emptiness. Yes, emptiness. That seems to be the recurring theme in my life. Every place I look, there it is again.

Emptiness.

Emptiness.