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Invisible Girl
Still struggling to keep my eyes open, I walked to the mirror on my bedroom wall. Nothing in the mirror could be seen with the fog in my eyes, though it wasn’t unusual for me, or anyone else for that matter. After I washed and got dressed I glanced out my window hoping that it wasn’t going to rain today. Still pretty early, the Sunday morning was bleak and downcast, but there were no dangerous clouds in sight. My trip to the park was safe. I guess you’re wondering why I’m up early on a Sunday going to a probably empty park or that you think I’m crazy, but Sunday mornings in the park were my sacred times, my oasis. It was the only chance for me to think and write in peace and to avoid being invisible again. On Saturday nights my mom brings her boyfriend home to stay the night. I hated the uncomfortable silence at the kitchen table with him, trying to think of things to say to him, but it wouldn’t even matter a few minutes later when my mom would walk in because then the shield activates. I don’t have any control over it which makes my days really lonely. Whenever it’s up no one pays attention to me or even sees me for that matter. Nobody, but myself knows I'm here and even then sometimes I feel that I'm not here. But it allows me to stay safe. Since no one can see me they can’t hurt me so much. Right now the shield was doing its thing. No one saw me walk out the front door, or probably cared. On the way over to the park I noticed that there was no need for the shield. Most kids were at home sleeping the day away before eating waffles with their family and the adults were either at work or at church. Most of them have one thing in common, faith. Faith that their Sunday mornings will be peaceful and lazy, that if they keep doing a good job that they won’t be fired, or that someone is out there protecting them. I didn’t really have that faith. Just the shield to protect myself as Invisible Girl.
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Favorite Quote:
"I think that most of us, anyway, read these stories that we know are not "true" because we're hungry for another kind of truth: the mythic truth about human nature in general, the particular truth about those life-communities that define our own identity, and the most specific truth of all: our own self-story. Fiction, because it is not about someone who lived in the real world, always has the possibility of being about oneself. "<br /> — Orson Scott Card