Stalker - Clarissa Wild Page 0,27
parents have her on such a difficult schedule that it’s tough for her to keep up with homework. I don’t understand why they’re so harsh on her. She deserves better than that. If I had parents like that, I’d have run away long ago. But not her … nuh-uh, she keeps trying to make them happy. I don’t know why because they keep telling her that she’s done something wrong or bad. They never approve of her, so I don’t get why it matters to her so much. It’s as if she still believes that they’ll finally be happy if she performs well enough.
But I’ve already seen it. They’ll never be close to happy. They have the same look in their eyes as the caretakers at the orphanage did, back when I still lived there. My foster parents don’t look at me that way. Even though they don’t know what to do with me, they don’t dislike me. Vanessa’s parents look at her like she’s worthless. Like she means nothing. Or maybe they’re just hoping for something that isn’t there.
I don’t understand why people can’t just leave each other alone and let them be. Maybe she doesn’t want to do so much homework. Maybe she wants to play with me, and they should let her do what she wants. Why don’t they want to see her happy? Do they only care about themselves?
I guess, since they hate having me around too, even though I’m the only one bringing a smile to her face every once in a while. The way they look at me makes me lean back every time I’m at their door. They look like they see a ghost. That, or I smell rotten. I don’t know which one it is.
We’re sitting in the grass at the place I like to sit and listen to the wind. It’s so peaceful here … it makes me calm inside, and there're not a lot of things that can do that to me. This is sort of my secret spot, my hideout, the place I bury my memories and secrets so no one will ever find them.
She’s reading her book while I’m enjoying the sun. I don’t do homework because it’s not my thing. I don’t understand most of it, and I just don’t have the concentration for it. I admire her for it. I wish I could sit down and stare at a book for hours on end.
“You should really read this book, you know,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because we have a test about this chapter tomorrow.”
“Hmm …”
“Don’t you care?” she asks, looking up from her book.
I gaze at her with a sneaky smile. “No. Why should I?”
“Well …” She closes her book. “Don’t your parents get mad or something?”
“They’re not my parents.” I look the other way.
“I don’t understand.”
When I look at her, she’s frowning. “I don’t have parents. Or at least, I don’t know who they are.”
“Then where do you live?” she asks.
“With my foster parents.”
“Then they are your parents,” she says.
I shake my head. “That’s not the same …”
She doesn’t know they don’t really like me. Not in the way that they would if I were their real son. They tolerate me, but that’s it. I’m still a fighter, still an unwanted brat, no matter how nicely you wrap the words.
“Yeah, it is. They take care of you. You live in their house. They’re your parents.” She shrugs. “There’s no difference.”
I chuckle a little. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s easier if you don’t think about it too much,” she muses.
“But is it worth it?” I ask.
She mulls about it for a second. “Maybe …”
I wrap my hands together behind my head and take a deep breath. “Figured you’d say that.”
“What? Why?”
I laugh. “You’re so predictable.”
“I am not.” She slaps me with her book, which hits quite hard, but it only makes me laugh harder.
“You are, but it’s good.” I snatch the book from her hand before she does any real damage with it. “I like it.”
A flush appears on her cheeks, and the moment that I realize what I’ve said, I shut my mouth, turning the other cheek. Embarrassing shit.
Suddenly, her fingers touch mine, and I flinch but relax when I notice she’s weaving hers through mine.
“I like you, too,” she says with a cute smile.
And right at that moment, it feels like my history means nothing compared to the time I still get to spend with her.
***
Present
Just thinking about the past makes me crack my knuckles, wishing