dropbear
You've always hated the smell of gasoline. It would sneak into the car when your parents went to the petrol station; no matter what you did, it would always be there.
After an episode of depression, everything suddenly became hysterically funny. She wasn't sure why. But there she was, practically pissing herself over youtube videos about history. It was better than being sad, anyway. She preferred it this way. The only problem was that it only happened after an episode, not at any other time.
It wasn't that she was afraid of what the punishment would be -- they'd be severe, she knew it -- she was afraid of what people would think of her afterwards. What if they thought she was stupid? Worse, what if they thought she was...not evil, evil wasn't the right word. That she was horrible? That would be even worse. No, she wasn't afraid of the punishment, but she was afraid of the consequences.
Many things were obsolete: the cassette tape, the gramophone, the need for a law about horses and cars; but it was her greatest fear that she would join them. She, too, would become obsolete in time and be replaced by something better, more useful. She didn't want to become a cassette tape. She was a human being, and she wanted to be reassured that she had more worth than that.
The bookshelf was who she was; she pruned it, adjusted it, took care of it like it was alive and flourishing under her hand. New books were added frequently, but books were hardly ever taken away. It had begun with a few shelves empty, neat, tidy, white. Now it was a mess of books that looked much-loved, worn, and there was no system of order to speak of.
The stage was too big, too bright, too far away from the audience. The audience was huge. It was bigger than they had said it would be and she couldn't help but think that they had done that on purpose; if she got stage fright, then there was nothing that could be done about it. Breathe in, breathe out. Begin.
The fangs were terrifying -- much bigger than they should be. It wasn't her imagination, was it? They were supposed to be proportional, at least. Not this great big things with poison dripping from the sharpest ends she'd ever seen. Nope, that was not cool. It wasn't natural.
The adventure was the usual cliche affair -- mountains, pirates, ninjas, evil guys with swords -- but it was much more enjoyable than real life, so he had no problem with it. The weather was miserable, the clouds dark and the temperature chilly. But he had a sword and a girl and a goal in mind, which was more than he could say for the real world. The real world was sunny, but he didn't have anything there.
The bear's been my companion since Year 6 when a friend won him at a fete stall. He's changed gender and name over the years -- I don't know what he's called now -- but he's still there, and that won't change any time soon. He's what I believe in.
The sheet was blank -- it had been blank all afternoon. She couldn't think of anything to write and she was horrified. She needed to write something -- she needed to write everything, and thatw as the problem. She needed to write everything there was to be written and she couldn't. She didn't have the time.
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