Teaser Tuesday {4}

So I realized that it's basically been ages since I've done one of these. The other day, I was randomly browsing my [failed] attempt at Project 365 this year, going through some of the posts from back in January on my other blog.

And then I found something that I'd completely forgotten writing about. It was a contest entry for a teen diary entry/letter over at agent extraordinaire Nathan Bransford's blog. So I guess I'll share it here:

__________

Henry –

Some days I wish you were a dragonfly. I wish you were a dragonfly because I want to hurt you, I want to make you feel pain, I want to utterly decimate you. I would grow my fingernails long and clutch your wings between them, digging the edges of the nails into the thin, gossamer material. Fragile. I would then slowly – slowly, to savour the satisfaction – slowly pull my hands apart like they were same poled magnets repelling each other. I would tear you from limb to limb, and prolong the excruciating agony for as long as I can. Then I would crunch your tail between my thumb and middle finger – you know why the middle finger – so that you can’t escape, and then – bam! Squish you flat with my other palm.

You don’t deserve to be called my “father” anymore – you’ve never been him, and iPhones will fall from the sky for free before you ever are him. But you know what’s the most pathetic part of all this? I wish you were him. I wish you could be him, even more than I wish for a free iPhone to just fall into my lap. And then disgust and abhorrence fills me to think that I’d even contemplated letting you back into my life.

Do you even realize how messed up my life is because of you? Sometimes I want to pretend that you don’t know, and that somewhere in that bleak, bleak heart of yours, you have a soft spot for me. The rational part of my mind knows that’s nothing but a lie though. Clearly, you don’t give a shit.

Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called Mom and me last night. The first time we’ve heard form you in about half a year now. And what was your not-so-surprising reason for calling? You got in a bar fight, you’re on the run, and you needed cash. And even though neither of us said it out loud, both Mom and I knew that you were drunk or high, or maybe even both. But by now, you probably don’t even remember doing that. And you’ll never read this letter, because you don’t deserve to know the full impact of your life on mine.

Last weekend, Mom took me to the mall and I saw some hot guys from school. And you know what I immediately did, almost subconsciously? I ran and tried to hide inconspicuously in the closest spot possible. Which happened to be a rack of old granny cardigans and gingham dresses on clearance. You know what else? I’m seventeen years old, about to graduate high school, and I’ve still never been kissed. You know why I’m such a late bloomer? Because I grew up without gender balance. Basically, I don’t know how to talk to guys. Every time I try, all I can do is gurgle incoherently.

You don’t deserve to have me care anymore.

Screw you, Henry.

Screw you, stranger.

Definitely not my father.

Work of Fiction.