Author- Chibi / Warlordess
Disclaimer- I don't own Pokemon, or May. Just let it go.
Summary- "How was it that I bothered waking up in the morning, knowing full-well how they felt about me?" May centered. Angsty. Please review.
Notes- This is slightly mature for the younger readers. Please be aware as you're reading.
Title- The Mistake
It wasn't that I had brown hair or blue eyes, and it wasn't that I grew into smiling for every and any reason.
It wasn't that I matured happily, and young, or that I loved the color red.
It wasn't even because I broke my mother's favorite vase when I was four years old, or that I used crayon on all of the beautiful white cabinets in the kitchen when I was six.
All I knew was that they looked at me almost every day, and something in their eyes, something that no one else knew... Well, the way they glanced at me - it could only be referred to as "disdain". I never really understood it. I only recognized that expression every time I walked through the door, every time I answered their call.
It was the one thing that ruined that picture-perfect family that everyone thought I was a part of. It was the reason I wanted to see the world. After all, there must have been someone out there who didn't feel I was such a waste.
It was the reason that I left my home, just to be away from them; just so that I could try to become something that they'd be proud of. Because my mother and father had never praised me before.
I always wondered if everyone was like that. If, maybe, it was normal for your parents to stare so fiercely at you that you felt crawling under your covers and into bed for the rest of your life was the best idea. I mean, how could I be expected to know? They never let me run off to the neighbors and show them that I'd learned to tie my shoes. They never paraded me around their friends at dinner parties as if I was the light of their life.
But I understood soon enough exactly what it was that made them... Hate... Me.
What kind of parents justified the desolate relationship they had with their daughter with something so stupid? What did they expect me to do about it? I couldn't change a thing. And I tried; quite often, actually.
It wasn't that I chose a Torchic as my Pokemon. And it wasn't even the fact that I spent a good ninety percent of my time with boys rather than girls which, at my age, was not something you saw very often.
It wasn't that I loved wearing clothes that revealed my figure. It wasn't that I, in the end, chose to ignore the statements they made behind my back; it wasn't anything that made sense to me.
How was it that I bothered waking up in the morning, knowing full-well how they felt about me? How could I even bother to look at myself when the sight of my reflection did all but please me? How could I walk and talk so normally when it disgusted everyone around me?
Was my very existence based on the soul purpose of finally learning why they treated me this way?
Maybe it was.
Because my parents don't choose to look at my brother that way when he enters the room they're in; they smile kindly at him with no hidden meaning. My parents value his opinion and make sure to treasure his words and his actions and his being. Not like with me.
I am their trash. I am their garbage disposal, with which they feel that they can throw away all of their insults and their naked hatred and their personal inhibitions. Perhaps they've never noticed how I've been congested for such a long time. Or perhaps they were the ones that clogged me, with a purpose.
I am the stain on their otherwise perfect carpeting. I am the chipped glass among their fixture of perfect china. I am the dust that they can't reach on the far end, in the back of the refrigerator, and they're angry because they can't seem to pluck me away.
The mistake wasn't that I loved fire-type Pokemon, or that I was an affectionate romantic. And it wasn't that I loved picking on my younger brother just because. And it wasn't that I thought a shopping trip was a good way to rid myself of stress...
The mistake - it was something I'd never known until just now. It wasn't the many faults that I may have. Or the characteristics that they wish they could share with me.
...It was just... Me.
Notes- The end. Wow; I've been needing to write up another angsty piece.
Okay, readers. Please don't feel that I'm writing this because I hate May. I know it may seem that way, especially what with the bash-fic I wrote about her awhile back, but I was really just voicing a personal angst that I've been wanting to divulge. My opinion of May, though growing slightly affectionate as of late, is that she's way too happy. I feel that she needs a good tragedy in her life to complete her being. And, after reading a Hermione/angst-centered Harry Potter fic just now, I felt that maybe, just maybe, May herself could be the tragedy.
Again, I don't hate her. I just wanted to voice something angsty to give her that final edge in her personality. .