Page 2 of Run For Me
I’m too tired to be nervous, which is why I forgo coffee, but eat half a corn muffin so there’s something in my stomach. Coffee will make me too alert, too aware of everything going on around me, and the easier I can blend in and ignore my surroundings, the better.
Returning to school after three years is a challenge, but my parents always encouraged me to pursue my dreams, so that’s what I’m doing. Attending college to get a degree in graphic design was always it. Ever since I could hold a crayon, I was drawing. And when technology evolved, so did my mediums. Though I love drawing on my tablet and iPad, sometimes I miss pencil and paper.
Nowadays, you don’t need a degree for this kind of thing. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. It’s too easy to find freelance work out there—which is what I do in my spare time. Most people don’t care about credentials; they just care that your style is what they’re looking for. But I’m not going back to school just for the degree or the money—I certainly don’t need it after every personin my life left me their entire life savings after dying. I also gained a car and the house I’m living in. Going back to school has nothing to do with the long game and wanting to get a job; I’m just doing it for my parents. It’s what they wanted for me, and it just feels like what I need to do.
I find my way to the back of the empty auditorium twenty minutes before class starts and sit on the very end seat near the aisle, so it’s easier to get up and leave if I need to. I’d also rather not be stuck between two strangers, if I can help it. I dig through my green canvas messenger bag to pull out the black glitter notebook that I’ll use for this class.
My phone buzzes, and when I look at it, I find a text from Sam.
Sam:Good luck on your first day of classes. Remember I love you and why you’re there. Don’t let your nerves get the best of you!! <3
I don’t know what I did in this world to deserve someone as sweet as Sam, but sometimes I don’t know how to deal with him. Sometimes I want to block him on every platform and device he could get a hold of me on and never talk to him again. He deserves someone else, someone nice, someone who appreciates his kindness and sweet words. Because even though I know that they’re sweet and kind, they do nothing for me. I don’t get butterflies in my stomach; I don’t get tingles across my skin, and I definitely don’t want more of it. Most of the time, Sam annoys me. The things he says makes my skin crawl, because sweet and kind are not what I want.
What I crave is something different, something more. Something I am ashamed to even think about, and only just started to accept about myself… sort of.
I haven’t fully accepted it if I’m still hiding it and avoiding thinking about it, but when I wrote it down in my journal for the first time, I felt lighter. Like I was finally moving forwardwith this… issue. I’d thought of going to a therapist to help me work through these thoughts and figure out why they’re there, but thinking of saying the words out loud makes me sick. There is no way I could tell anyone about the things I think about—the things I imagine being done to me by a stranger.
So, instead, those thoughts stay safe in my head and safe in my journal—the one my mother bought for me one week after my father died, figuring it would help me process his death. It’s done that and so much more. I don’t think she realized how truly important this book would become to me.
The 6x9, pink leather notebook has helped me through every death in my family over the last six years, and all the other difficult things I’ve dealt with too. And even though I grew out of liking pink years ago, well before my father died, I cherished it because it’s my mom’s favorite color. It’s the same reason my blonde hair has streaks of pink through it. The same reason I touch it up every month to make sure it doesn’t fade, and the same reason, still to this day, I take every Sunday to journal my darkest thoughts from over the week. Yesterday, I took an entire two pages to go on about how nervous I am about school.
The journal is old, it’s dirty, it’s falling apart, but I do my best to care for it and fix it when it needs. I know it won’t last forever, and the closer I get to the end of it, the heavier the pit in my stomach grows. Yes, I can buy a new one, but it won’t be this one. It won’t be the same. And I’m at the point where it’s easier to count the blank pages than the full ones.
I don’t respond to Sam, just put the phone back in my bag and dig around for a pen. As I do, I find a new hole, and I make a mental note to sew it up when I get home. It’s not the first hole I’ve found and it won’t be the last, but I refuse to use a different bag. This was my father’s, and keeping a piece of those I love with me helps me through my tough days. The journal from my mother, the messenger bag from my father, the silver angel wingpendant that I wear around my neck from my grandmother, and the frayed shoelaces on my red Keds from my grandfather. Maybe it’s weird, but I’ve never been normal.
I blow out a breath of relief when I find a pen. I was worried they’d all fallen out of the hole in the bottom, and I’d have to ask someone to borrow one. Talking to someone isn’t on my agenda for today. I re-settle myself and get as comfortable as I can in the hard plastic chair as I wait for my first class to start.
Chapter Three
Him
The classroom is empty as I make my way out of it. I prefer to take my time as I leave, or as I do anything, really. I see no point in rushing around and think it’s crazy that so many people allow themselves to be bossed around by a man-made thing.
Time.
As I reach the top steps of the auditorium, something catches my eye. I crouch to get a better look. Just beneath the end seat is a pink notebook. I pick it up, thinking nothing of it, and open up to the first page to look for the owner’s information.
That is not what I find.
The page is thin and worn, and on the top right corner is a date from over six years ago. Below that, is a journal entry written in feminine handwriting.
None of this is fair. I shouldn’t have to grow up without my daddy. My mom shouldn’t have to raise me by herself. She toldme grammy and grampy are going to help, and even thought of moving in with us, but they shouldn’t have to do that either.
Why does God have to be so mean? Why did he have to take away my daddy? He did nothing wrong, and neither did I.
Mom bought me this journal because she said it will help me. It’s easier for me to share my feelings when writing or drawing. I don’t want to use this, but I think it will make Mom happy, so that’s why I’m doing it.
I grunt to myself as I flip through the pages, trying to find a name or number, but that’s not here. Just a bunch of journal entries. Great. But it seems important, and I’d like to get it back to its owner. I know how important your most private thoughts can be, and having them out there for anyone to read could be detrimental to someone’s mental health—something I care about, despite what people think about me.
I skip to the very end to see how recent the entries are. If this person has kept up with journaling, then perhaps something in those pages will give me a clue as to who this belongs to.
I read the last entry and there’s nothing there that will help me figure out who the owner is. It’s just a long rant about how nervous they are about starting a new school. So, likely this belongs to a freshman, which hardly narrows down the numbers.
“Hey, handsome.”
I snap the book shut and look up at the sultry voice. I raise a brow.
“Mindy,” I greet in an even but bored tone.
