I've had this idea stuck in my head for awhile, and creative writing finally pushed me to start it.

warning: language, depressive themes

I was that kid. You know, the one that sat in the back of class. The one who never participated. The one student who the teacher would repeatedly have to ask them for their name because they couldn't remember. The one kid who would just sit there and stalk the minute hand until it was the end of class. The one who would, until that time, bury their head in a random book.

I loved books. Books were my saving grace. It hid the fact that no one wanted to talk to me. Instead it looked like I was actually absorbed in something, even though I never was.

And that's how it looked. That's how it always looked. It didn't look like I was hiding the fact I had no one to turn to in class to talk to.

Who wanted to talk to the loner kid? Hm?

No one. That's who.

I was lonely. I was so lonely.

And that's how I would feel the rest of my day. I never got a wave in the hallways. Not even a smile of recognition.

I didn't get to gossip at lunch; that was for people who actually had friends. Instead, I was one of the few who were condemned to wander aimlessly around the hallways.

Then there was gym. That was a fucking nightmare. I was always picked last. I was only ever on the team that picked me last because the teacher forced me to, even though he knew that I didn't want to play as much as they didn't want me. No one ever passed me the ball when we played soccer, and they always pushed me to the back of the lineup in kick ball. I wasn't a valuable player. The only time I was noticed in gym was when we played dodge ball. I was always out first.

And when I got home, no one was there.

There were no brothers or sisters. There was no grandma or grandpa or aunt or uncle. And there definitely was no dad. That's too crazy to even consider.

My mom was the only other human being who lived there, but she was hardly home. She was always working.

She said she had bills to pay, and her job paid crap. She had to work long hours and as many of them as possible. She said she needed to support us.

I'm pretty sure the job was supposed to be an excuse. I think she picked a job with the worst hours and worst pay possible. There were better things in the job listings all of the time. I think she only worked that job to get away from me since dad beat her to it.

So most days, it was just me, myself, and I until she got home late at night.

The only other living thing at the house was Lucy, and she was a dog.

I loved that dog though. I think she was the only thing that loved me. She had a sweet heart and would always wait for me at the door until I got home from school. When I would walk in her tail would wag so fast that I was afraid it would fall off because she was so damn happy. After that, she would follow me all around and nap beside me while I got my homework done. It was nice. It made me feel like something out in the world loved me.

But a dog's love can only go so far.

They can't communicate. They can't ask you how your day was or what you want to do for dinner. They can't hug you and kiss you when you're upset. They can't share stories that'll make you laugh until you're crying.

Those are things only a human can do.

I was alone.

There was no one there to speak to; no one to listen to me. And there was no one to listen to, to hear what goes on in their world. Everyday was a "Groundhog Day" effect; the repetitious cycle of loneliness, solitude, and silence.

Every night I would cry myself to sleep. It was a gift if I didn't. I would fall asleep with snot and tears smeared across my face. I would hiccup and heave until I finally passed out from exhaustion.

It sucked. I'd fall asleep too late and in the morning, I would have to wake up early. And then the same would happen the next day, and then the day after that, and then the day after that one and so on.

Being upset takes a lot of energy out of a person, especially if they're upset all of the time.

You start to really wonder if there's really a point to life. No one acknowledges you. You become a ghost that watches life pass before them. Happiness only seems as real as fairy tales that children grow up believing in, which only turn out to be lies. So why even bother? Why bother with going on?

Maybe it's some weird little glimmer of curiosity. A bunch of "what-ifs". What if one day, someone does notice you? What if once you break out of the cage that you're in? What if you get to be something greater? What if somehow you end up rich and married with a family? What if one day you end up winning an Oscar? What if things get better?

What if one day you are loved?

What if?

It's really hard to believing in the "what-ifs". Our surroundings and past like to convince us that everything will stay the same. It's like that saying, "history will repeat itself" and you're fucked. You know that nothing is ever going to change. That you will always somehow manage to hit a lower point in your life, even when you didn't think it was possible.

But it was still there. For some reason I believed in those damn "what-ifs". I didn't know why or how though. I had tried to stop thinking of them a long time ago, but I couldn't completely get rid of it. Maybe it was because I had read so many of the stories with under dogs. Those people that turn out to be heroes. That one day everything does turn around.

I really didn't want to believe in the "what-ifs".

But I did. I hated myself so much for it.

And so every day I continued to live my small existence. I wasn't quite sure what the point of it was, but then one day something changed.

I met a deaf kid named Alfred.