Disgrace_508
Legacy Name: Disgrace_508

Tick.

A little girl gaped at the clock from the corner of her puffy eyes. 2:58. "Oh, no..."

She shuffled about her desk, scooting up her chair and gathering her belongings. Pencils, glue, the enormous glasses, with their repulsing pink frames, that she refused to wear... and... that paper. Just the sight of it set her stomach to churning. She might have wadded it up, tossed it in the trash on her way out, or torn it to shreds... but she was a good little girl, and that would be... wrong, wouldn't it? Yes, she was sure that was wrong. So she shoved it down to the darkest depths of her Disney backpack, zipped it up, and clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't see.

But she knew they would.

Tock. 2:59.

"Oh, please. I don't want to go home!" She trudged to line up behind the other students, all bouncing happily at the thought of finally being free for the day. Her teacher stood at the doorway, ready to usher them out of her hair and to the awaiting buses. The little girl in the back of the line caught the teacher's eye, but she could only offer her student a small, sympathetic smile. "I don't understand!" the child wailed silently. "Why wouldn't you let me fix it?!"

Seconds ticked. The churning in her stomach worsened. She felt sick.

3:00.

The cheerful dinging of the school bell sounded more like the opening of the gates of hell, and the bus ride home was an excursion to oblivion.

"I'm not going."

Seven years down the road, and Mommy and Daddy were still mad at her, for one reason or another. Today, it was church. Or, rather, a lack of church. Her dark dress and anti-social ways were apparently evidence of her slow decline into depravity and godlessness, proof that she was in desperate need of The Church.

"I'll pray in my own room, in my own clothes, away from those perfect little hypocrites you call Christians! And if God has a problem with it, let Him come down and tell me so!"

She tilted her head back and spread her arms wide, like an angel awaiting the Second Coming.

Silence.

"I think I'll just stay home." And with that, she shut the door to her room, and muttered the appropriate angst-filled teenage responses in the general direction of the door, until her parents finally gave up and carried on to church without her. Her antics would probably cost her a weeks worth of privileges, but it was a good trade for a night away from the perfect people. She snatched up her pens and paper, cranked up the tunes, plopped on her bed and committed to spending her newly earned free time working up her next great masterpiece.

Her pen wouldn't cooperate, though; it scratched nothing more than little doodles on the paper. She couldn't stop thinking about them. Her parents. No doubt they were talking about her, wondering what was wrong with her. Wondering why she wore all black and listened to crazy music and stayed locked in her room all hours of the day not monopolized by school. Wondering where they had Gone Wrong.

"I love you..." she whispered to the man lying beside her, and tried to ignore the bitter taste of the lie on her lips. She was lying, and it didn't matter, because he loved her. As flawed as she was, as vain and imperfect as she was, he loved her. She didn't have to climb mountains or tame the wilderness or jump through a dozen flaming hoops to make him love her. He just did. She knew he did, because he told her so.

"I love you, too..."

The words filled her with a soft warmth, a golden glow of satisfaction and relief. Relief, because she didn't have to try anymore. She could finally be her, just her, with her black clothes and obscene music, her cigarettes and her half-finished doodles, and be accepted for it. She didn't have to feel so heavy anymore, didn't have to carry the weight of her parents' world, all of their good intentions and ungodly expectations, on her feeble shoulders.

He loved her, and she needed him to love her, so she lied. She didn't love him. She barely knew him.

It never occurred to her, not once, he might be lying too.

And that was how it went down. She marched to the beat of an unending chorus of beautiful lies, shrouded herself in a rosy haze of self-delusion, and the fallacy carried her away from all she knew to be good and right in the world, scattered her like nothing more than ashes on the wind.

She smiled the whole way down.

Stupid girl. Such a disgrace.

The fact she had put on some weight was undeniable. The fact that she was going on four months pregnant still was... but only just.

It wasn't a secret, but it wasn't something she advertised, either. Pregnant at nineteen, and so woefully unmarried... Had she really done so poorly for herself? She was nineteen, after all. Legally an adult. She wouldn't be making her debut on some God awful reality TV show. But still... it was not something one bragged about. Not in a town where image was everything, and everyone considered themselves your own personal judge and jury. She could almost hear the whispers, see the little arrogant half-smirks of those beautiful, faceless people. "Is she? Is she really? Oh my God..." They skittered past her as if the plague brewed in her belly, rather than a baby.

She hated them.

"At least I graduated. We can't all be perfect like you, you judgmental creeps ..."

Everything changed the day she put the ring on. She knew she didn't love him, but maybe that wouldn't matter. He was the one who made her feel like less of a failure. He wasn't disappointed or embarrassed by her. He loved her. She knew that for a fact. Surely, that would be enough. Instead, she was reminded, everyday, of just how... worthless... she really was.

He didn't even try to hide the affairs anymore.

Disgrace.

The ring burned at her finger. She wondered how such a tiny little thing could carry such a weight.

"I hope you're not embarrassed anymore, Mom... I hope I finally did something to please you. The cost was only me, being miserable the rest of my life."

She made a strange, raspy sound, swallowed back the harsh taste of her tears. There was something... in her. Right in the middle of her chest. Like a hole, but it wasn't a hole. It was hot and full of something that ached, as a wound would ache. Though she had only just noticed it, she thought it might have been there for a long, long time.

Shame. Was she ashamed? Yes. Yes, she was.

"What a petty, petty creature I am, for desiring what I don't deserve, and for blaming the people who love me for what I did to myself."

Life seemed to spite her dreams. She might have been an artist, or a musician. Even an author. At the very least, she could have lived a simple life in a way that inspired others. Loyal friend. Loving mother. Devoted wife. Despite her aspirations, her illusions of grandeur and rose-colored fantasies, all of these things had whispered silently beyond her grasp, like sand sifting through desperately clinging fingers.

And it was her fault. That hole in her chest told her it was.

It was a hard realization to come to. She flicked open her lighter and lit one up, watched it slowly burn its way into smoldering ash. A surreal moment, one she thought strangely symbolic of her life. The fire was in her hand, and she had set the flames to it. There was no one else to blame for the pile of ashes in her lap. Only her.

"Dear God,

I love my Mom. I love my Dad. I love that they wanted me to make good grades, and go to church. I love the way they hovered over me, made me stay home when I wanted to go out. I love how Mom used to hide my cigarettes, because she thought I would get cancer and die.

I love that they wanted me to get married, because they didn't want me to be a single mom. They didn't want me to struggle.

You gave me a good brain, gave me two legs and two arms that work right. You gave me a heart that told me when I was doing wrong, even though I never listened. You gave me two beautiful, beautiful people to be my parents. You gave me everything I needed to be something in this world... And I screwed it all up."

It was me. I was the disgrace. I was.