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Description
She sat staring at the small little book the woman had given her a year or so ago, her fingers tensing and knuckles starting to turn white. She felt the prickle of tears that wanted to be shed. The polka-dots on the small notebook shimmered as she tilted it to look at both sides. She opened it, reading the first ruled, tawny-paged entry in red ink. Such sickeningly sweet words, hearts drawn here and there. Confidence, progression. She shoved the book back into her backpack, deep in the front pocket under her many other books and items. No matter where she went, she took that small book with her. The amount of pain and hatred it created was stifling, but she still breathed. Without it, somehow she couldn't.

How had she become attached to these people? These thirty-some people that varied so greatly in every way. She thought back, to the first day she'd visited them. The name and that little book came up as pictures in her picture-memory stage. A dark-skinned, dread-locked girl named "Polka", if memory served. The irony infuriated her, but it also made her want to laugh. That first day, that girl had seen the weaknesses of the newcomer, and she waited to strike.

Bowling, they went bowling. There was the smell of pizza and fries from where they sat just in front of the little in-shop-shops. She sat against the wall and curled up into a small ball, thinking about how the clouds had been gathering through the day, the time now 12:30pm, she wanted to say. It wasn't bright like an average sunny day. With her head low, she heard the heavy footsteps of the boy before he came into view. She looked up, and she saw the short-haired brunette male with glasses as he took a seat beside her and smiled ever gently. She'd never have guess all the things he told her about himself, things that she... respected him for. Not because they were necessarily good things, but because he admitted they were bad.

Two weaknesses. The dot came in with intent to consume.

Joining the brunette to bowl, she sat with him between his turns and laughed with him as they talked, carefree and happy as could be. She hadn't felt that way in years. A friend, someone to talk to face-to-face. Was that was she was experiencing? He'd shown her kindness. Out of all the girls in the group, none had come to the newcomer. Instead a boy had, and though in the back of her mind she wondered why, she ceased to care when she found herself facing her face person-related conflict.

"Gay! You're so gay!" The newcomer's wide eyes flashed from the dread-locked girl to the brunette male. He scoffed at her and turned back to the once curled-up female. He kept talking, and when the girl he helped try to stand up for him, he eased her down with a smile and roll of his eyes. Quelling her anger he assured her that he didn't care, and therefor it didn't matter was said across the table. The one who no longer felt like a newcomer smiled, and she nodded in solemn yet elated agreement.

Separated, girls in one place and boys in another later that day, she felt again like a newcomer, and as she picked at her food she stared at the dread-locks of the girl who now turned her hatred out on the small-bodied blonde. Trying to ignore her, the blonde closed her eyes. The taunts from the bowling alley returned, and the Polka was as small as a dot as the lithe blonde rose and stared her down with hatred and danger emitting. A silent warning with eyes fierce as Hell fire and a shove to her shoulder as they parted ways, the blonde walked away. The newcomer stopped upon hearing insults. But this time, they were directed at the blonde newcomer, not the brunette male.
"You're such a slutty bitch! You're defending a gay dude! Bitch!" She started walking away again, hearing the other's voice growing more distant. The cowardly girl didn't follow as she threw out one last insult that the blonde wasn't even sure was an insult. "Horse!" She almost looked back in a sputter of laughter, but decided simply to move on to another room.

They scolded her. She was accused of shoving little miss Polka down, of hitting her, and cussing her out. The newcomer sat quietly and took their accusations. If they wanted to believe it, they could. And they did.

She returned home and told of the negative experience, but she kept the words of the brunette to herself. The hell he'd been through, admitted the anger the newcomer had grown up losing control of that he had controlled for her to learn from; she'd not experienced something so complicated in years.

As she woke the next weekend to stormy skies, she decided against going to meet with the group again. She stared as the rain felt, feeling deeply ashamed of herself. She'd not gone solely because of the harmless rain, and she hated herself for this cowardice. She didn't stay because of the conflict with anyone but her own mind. Her mind that that day beat out of her the lessons of control she'd received. The blonde knew more than ever that her greatest enemy would always be herself.

Staring at the book, every time she got ready to leave the house. Never did she give it just a passing glance. she touched the polka-dotted book, ran her fingers over its smooth surface. She stuffed it back into her bag and left for a lunch. A lunch she would attend only for herself.

She wondered that night without even looking at the book if the brunette would have been disappointed in the girl he'd come to save from her first scary day in the company of people after so long of introversion. She never saw him again, but found herself wondering how he was doing. She couldn't even remember his name, but she remembered his face and the way he eased her when "Polka" had verbally assaulted him. How he could be so calm she still didn't know. She knew really he was a bit upset, but that he knew the logic that the girl was simply being cruel because she was insecure. After all, the next year, she never saw either person again.

Damn that polka-dotted book. Damn it to hell, but save it enough to be remembered. Such twisted emotions. The beginning and the end of something left unresolved. The pages of that book had only since been touched twice since she received it, and only for things she felt worth remembering.

What would her life be like with that brunette's guidance remaining? Why was she only remembering it now?

Too many questions. Just too many. "What if's" already hounded her crowded mind. She lied her head down on the coffee table and closed her eyes, music blaring through her headphones late at night. What if she had gone back during that storm?

Description
She sat staring at the small little book the woman had given her a year or so ago, her fingers tensing and knuckles starting to turn white. She felt the prickle of tears that wanted to be shed. The polka-dots on the small notebook shimmered as she tilted it to look at both sides. She opened it, reading the first ruled, tawny-paged entry in red ink. Such sickeningly sweet words, hearts drawn here and there. Confidence, progression. She shoved the book back into her backpack, deep in the front pocket under her many other books and items. No matter where she went, she took that small book with her. The amount of pain and hatred it created was stifling, but she still breathed. Without it, somehow she couldn't.

How had she become attached to these people? These thirty-some people that varied so greatly in every way. She thought back, to the first day she'd visited them. The name and that little book came up as pictures in her picture-memory stage. A dark-skinned, dread-locked girl named "Polka", if memory served. The irony infuriated her, but it also made her want to laugh. That first day, that girl had seen the weaknesses of the newcomer, and she waited to strike.

Bowling, they went bowling. There was the smell of pizza and fries from where they sat just in front of the little in-shop-shops. She sat against the wall and curled up into a small ball, thinking about how the clouds had been gathering through the day, the time now 12:30pm, she wanted to say. It wasn't bright like an average sunny day. With her head low, she heard the heavy footsteps of the boy before he came into view. She looked up, and she saw the short-haired brunette male with glasses as he took a seat beside her and smiled ever gently. She'd never have guess all the things he told her about himself, things that she... respected him for. Not because they were necessarily good things, but because he admitted they were bad.

Two weaknesses. The dot came in with intent to consume.

Joining the brunette to bowl, she sat with him between his turns and laughed with him as they talked, carefree and happy as could be. She hadn't felt that way in years. A friend, someone to talk to face-to-face. Was that was she was experiencing? He'd shown her kindness. Out of all the girls in the group, none had come to the newcomer. Instead a boy had, and though in the back of her mind she wondered why, she ceased to care when she found herself facing her face person-related conflict.

"Gay! You're so gay!" The newcomer's wide eyes flashed from the dread-locked girl to the brunette male. He scoffed at her and turned back to the once curled-up female. He kept talking, and when the girl he helped try to stand up for him, he eased her down with a smile and roll of his eyes. Quelling her anger he assured her that he didn't care, and therefor it didn't matter was said across the table. The one who no longer felt like a newcomer smiled, and she nodded in solemn yet elated agreement.

Separated, girls in one place and boys in another later that day, she felt again like a newcomer, and as she picked at her food she stared at the dread-locks of the girl who now turned her hatred out on the small-bodied blonde. Trying to ignore her, the blonde closed her eyes. The taunts from the bowling alley returned, and the Polka was as small as a dot as the lithe blonde rose and stared her down with hatred and danger emitting. A silent warning with eyes fierce as Hell fire and a shove to her shoulder as they parted ways, the blonde walked away. The newcomer stopped upon hearing insults. But this time, they were directed at the blonde newcomer, not the brunette male.
"You're such a slutty bitch! You're defending a gay dude! Bitch!" She started walking away again, hearing the other's voice growing more distant. The cowardly girl didn't follow as she threw out one last insult that the blonde wasn't even sure was an insult. "Horse!" She almost looked back in a sputter of laughter, but decided simply to move on to another room.

They scolded her. She was accused of shoving little miss Polka down, of hitting her, and cussing her out. The newcomer sat quietly and took their accusations. If they wanted to believe it, they could. And they did.

She returned home and told of the negative experience, but she kept the words of the brunette to herself. The hell he'd been through, admitted the anger the newcomer had grown up losing control of that he had controlled for her to learn from; she'd not experienced something so complicated in years.

As she woke the next weekend to stormy skies, she decided against going to meet with the group again. She stared as the rain felt, feeling deeply ashamed of herself. She'd not gone solely because of the harmless rain, and she hated herself for this cowardice. She didn't stay because of the conflict with anyone but her own mind. Her mind that that day beat out of her the lessons of control she'd received. The blonde knew more than ever that her greatest enemy would always be herself.

Staring at the book, every time she got ready to leave the house. Never did she give it just a passing glance. she touched the polka-dotted book, ran her fingers over its smooth surface. She stuffed it back into her bag and left for a lunch. A lunch she would attend only for herself.

She wondered that night without even looking at the book if the brunette would have been disappointed in the girl he'd come to save from her first scary day in the company of people after so long of introversion. She never saw him again, but found herself wondering how he was doing. She couldn't even remember his name, but she remembered his face and the way he eased her when "Polka" had verbally assaulted him. How he could be so calm she still didn't know. She knew really he was a bit upset, but that he knew the logic that the girl was simply being cruel because she was insecure. After all, the next year, she never saw either person again.

Damn that polka-dotted book. Damn it to hell, but save it enough to be remembered. Such twisted emotions. The beginning and the end of something left unresolved. The pages of that book had only since been touched twice since she received it, and only for things she felt worth remembering.

What would her life be like with that brunette's guidance remaining? Why was she only remembering it now?

Too many questions. Just too many. "What if's" already hounded her crowded mind. She lied her head down on the coffee table and closed her eyes, music blaring through her headphones late at night. What if she had gone back during that storm?