Oblivion

• Isabelle Brown, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2013

I preferably sit by myself on the bus home. It’s not like a self-important protest or anything, I just know where my place is in the stereotypical hierarchy of high school. Not close to the front, to sustain my position as a non-loser, but not on the backseat of course. The blonde haired surfers are obliged to present a false smile to me but they are excused from saving me a seat because that would imply that we are actually friends. So I keep myself in my own company, which suits me, considering I'm half dead by the time I’m on the bus. Music is generally the common companion for every bus rider, however some opt for the classic novel, but those people are most likely to be found at the front of the bus.
Ridiculous in my opinion that a mode of transport contains such an idiotic structure which separates the ‘normal’ people, (who are actually the people who think they are better than everyone else, therefore defeating the purpose of labelling themselves as ‘normal’) from the rest of the riff raff who are on the bus. I guess I could call myself normal, and it’s true that I probably consider myself better than others on the bus. But it’s not my fault, it’s not anyone’s fault really. We’re just following suit from the others who we looked up to, and I guess they did the same. On this particular day the bus is annoyingly crowded, as it’s Friday afternoon and everyone seems to be staying at a friend’s place. I’m forced to share a seat with a sullen girl that I think is in the grade above, she gives me a meek smile and returns back to looking sad and deprived of love.
For me, Friday afternoons have become a real drag ever since my mum decided to put me in counselling under the ridiculous assumption that I have depression. “You share no interest in social activities! You barely leave the house, and your best friend is Molly, there must be something going on underneath it all”. Molly is my beloved and obese cat. I tell Mum that I’m really just a lazy teenager but she refuses to believe that her daughter, who was once a ‘talented young gymnast with unbelievable potential’, is now a professional couch potato. So as usual, when I get off the bus she’s sitting in her car, arms waving and ready to cure her daughter’s non-existent mental illness. I stare at her with all her enthusiasm and admire her somewhat. I suppose she does try. I do my usual empty glance either side of the road and start to cross. Ever so inconveniently my star rated hands drop my iphone and I’m forced to do my graceful dance to the ground to pick it up. There’s this really loud roar in my ear and suddenly my heart does a weird summersault thing and I –