Chap 13 I am not your protagonist
The next day I skip school.
Well, sort of. I went into the school building and told my teachers (collectively) that I was going to a doctor’s appointment and then forged a random doctor’s signature. To be fair, there’s no way they’ll check to see if the note if valid. For one thing, I’m easily acing all my classes and my teachers are getting a bit tired of me correcting them. And for another, they have no reason not to trust me so one by one they all shrugged, said I could have emailed them, and then yelled at me to stop skateboarding through the halls.
Pushing away the memories, I strum my guitar once more and tune it as I glance up at the muted sunlight in the middle of the grey sky above me. The weather is miserable in DC today and I absolutely love it. It’s especially beautiful from where I’m seated on top of my apartment building.
Yeah, I spend a lot of time on the rooftop that I tried to end my life on. I’m not planning to try again (at the moment anyways), I just like it up here. Even before my attempt I hung out on the roof. There’s nothing all that special about it, it’s a plain old concrete roof with a tiny shack-like structure in the middle leading down into the apartment. Each side of the square roof has a three foot tall concrete wall that I tend to perch on. There’s something exhilarating about the fact that one small step could lead to my doom after all the shit I’ve been through.
Plus this is where I come to smoke because there’s no way my dad would ever suspect of me coming up here.
My left hand brings a cigarette to my lips and I breathe in the smoke before snuffing it out on my thigh. I flick the butt towards the wastebasket near the door before turning back to the tiny ants called people thirty floors below me.
I pull out my phone and open the notes app to a page labelled ‘Songs to Learn’. The screen scrolls down past about thirty songs I’ve performed so far to one without a checked box next to it.
Smirking to myself, I turn sideways on the wall so I’m straddling it, before I flop backwards so I’m lying down. My left foot gets placed on the wall so my leg forms a triangle,
and I strike the first cord to ‘Sweet Hibiscus Tea by Penelope Scott’.
“Here's the thing, I can't do anything right
Try as I absolutely, totally might
The bones are melting, the skeleton is ash
The clavicle detaches and falls with a deafening crash.” The music wraps me up and mutes the thoughts and equations that are constantly hurtling around my head. The silence is a nice break, even though the nostalgia from when this song first came out back in 2006 hits hard.
I strum the guitar with more vigor as my favorite part of the song - the chorus - approaches.
“And I'm not your protagonist
I'm not even my own
I don't know anything
I don't even know what I don't know.”
This song was my favorite, and probably still is, for the past five years since it came out. Ten-year-old me loved the ‘I’m not your protagonist’ part, because I can relate to it deeply. Honestly, my dad’s so worried about me wanting to join the FBI, he never stopped to ask if I actually wanted to. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but it’s where my dad and I differ. He’s always tried to use his mind and intellect for the force of good. I’m not evil, and while I could take over the world that’s too much work, but I don’t want the government using my brain. My dad’s smart, but he’s a bit blinded by his success of being the youngest person accepted into the BAU. I see the government for what it truly is - a power-seeking organization bent on total control.
“And if you look outside you'll see
Disintegrating trees
The artificial way the sunlight bounces
Off the waxy leaves
My heart catches on every thorn
You're already halfway out the door
And I've never looked so old
And I have never been so cold
And it is 85 degrees
I don't know what I need.”
I draw out the word ‘need’ and ignore the way my throat is starting to ache since I haven’t sung in a while. Honestly, I know I’m a decent singer and guitar player. I wasn't born with natural talent for music like with my intellect, but intelligence definitely helps. When I play a song, the music swirls in front of me and each chord and word lights up as I perform them. But I’ve been learning to play the guitar and sing since I was five.
“There's lukewarm herbal mango sweet hibiscus tea
On the hot garbage pile in which I fucking sleep
The walls are empty it's so ugly I could
Burn the whole place down
It wouldn't catch 'cause all the posters
Are on their way to my hometown.”
That part makes me smile as I think of my bedroom. I’ve never been one for decorating, and my room reflects that. It’s pretty messy, as I can’t bring myself to focus for long enough to clean it. It’s not a very large room, but it’s big enough. The walls are a blank beige except for one poster of MCR from back when they first came out. My bed is more of a cot because of all the articles I’m read on the dangers of bedframes, so my mattress is on the hardwood floor with a bunch of pillows and wrinkly blankets piled on top of it (the floor is fucking freezing in the mornings). I have stacks of books all around my bed and a nightstand next to the mattress that’s full of art supplies, headphones (because I’m a hoarder of them), and makeup. On top of the nightstand is an old vintage lamp shaped like a leg that I thought was hilarious at a flea market.
“And I am not your protagonist
I'm not even my own
I don't know anything
I don't even know what I don't know
And if you look outside you'll see
Disintegrating trees
The artificial way the sunlight bounces
Off the glitching leaves
My wet heart catches on every thorn
You're already halfway out the door
And I'm so tiny and so old
And God it's never been so cold
And it is 85 degrees
I don't know what I need.”
For whatever reason, a wave of exhaustion hits me after that final note. I tuck my guitar under my jacket, place both on the roof next to me, and lie back on the wall.
The last thing I see is the sun above me before unconsciousness hits.
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