Leah Hemingway Pregame: Start
Leah wanted to peel her skin off. The mosquitoes, the heat, the decision to wear two layers on a hot Miami summer. Her fingers, covered with sweat underneath foul-smelling gardening gloves two sizes too big for her. The sunhat had done nothing for her except to be itchy. At least she had a half-drank flat bottle of sprite by her side. It’s warm now, and she almost had a bug fly into it, but the point is that the bug was squashed anyways, so who cares.
Alligator lily. Hymenocallis Palmeri, grandma had explained, is its real scientific name. Leah didn’t understand why it’s named that. They’re pretty and white and looked nothing like an alligator. She didn’t understand why she had to be stuck here, in the middle of the garden. Had to sit down down the side of the curb, the mangled remains of the Alligator Lily clenched in her sweaty, gloved left hand, waiting for mom to arrive and yell at her for getting dirt on another white dress that she was forced to wear. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t go and play with the other kids, having sleepovers or birthday parties or whatever kids her age are supposed to do. They all have friends and a few of them are dating, gross, and they’re not lonely like her. What’s wrong with her? Why couldn’t she make friends?
At least the school year passed. No more fractions or P.E or classes or assemblies. She could at least be alone for once. Away. Lonely. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. It’s the same thing, every summer. Those memories blend together, and she couldn't separate one sweaty, lonely month from another. There’s more plants this year, at least. Mom’s paying more attention, but she didn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
It’s another summer. Sometimes she forgets the year. Not like it matters, anyways. She doesn’t need friends. She doesn’t want them. She has her books, and her plants, and her own imagination. Sometimes she feels like she's 10 again, looking at her first pot of strawberries. She’s fine like this.
She’d be fine.
It’s just another summer. She could live through it. She can survive it. It’s fine.
It really isn’t and she’s so fucking tired.
Unrestrained summer depression
A series of oneshots set in random unspecified summers of Leah Hemingway's life
It’s the last day of school and she should be happy, but she isn’t even though everyone else seems to be and it’s pissing her off so damn much and she hates how she’s pissed off at that. All the other kids, with their happy smiles and conversations and already made friend groups signing each other’s yearbooks. And there she is among them, alone, like a sore fucking thumb clutching her own empty book, barely paying attention to the Disney movie played on the projector. And she wants to be in on the action too, she really does! She just couldnt.
It’s not like it’s her fault! It’s not like any of this is her fucking fault and she hates it and she hates them for ignoring her even though she’s the one who wanted to be alone in the first place, and she’s the one who pushed them away because she’s to damn scared to talk to people, and she’s the one who stopped going out, and she’s the one who never went out in the first place, and it feels like she wasted another year. Every day’s just a repeat.
And mom says that she should have friends by now, that she’s a big girl and should be mature and that if she continues like this she would never have any friends, and she knows that already. She’s a big girl now, or whatever mom says she is, but she doesn’t feel like one. She doesn’t even feel like she’s experienced her childhood yet. She missed so much, so much that she would never get back. Sleepovers. Playing house. Barefoot in the grass, chasing each other, barefoot in the grass, laughing without a care in the world. And everyone seems like they’ve been through that and enjoyed their past days but Leah can feel nothing but regret, and mourning for lost chances, for childhood innocence gone, even though she’s socially an infant.
She’s zoning out and dissociating but she’d much rather be stuck regretting a shitty past than dealing with a shitty present, so she just unconsciously scratches the pale skin on her bony arms and drowns in her memories
One kid comes up to her, black and white yearbook pages almost completely covered with colorful ink from everyone else. He’s attractive, in a soft way that made him look way more approachable and nice than anyone has any right to be. And she knows that she’s sort of not bad-looking herself too, which was probably the only thing that stood between her and being shoved in a locker, and she hates him for having what she doesn’t have. It’s fucking irrational and doesn’t make any sense but since when did life make sense anyways? She silently, almost mindlessly, scribbles “happy summer vacation!- Leah Hemingway” surrounded by a messy scrawl of a flower border onto the page with a black ballpoint pen and continues her monologue.
It’s not like it’s her fault! It’s not like any of this is her fucking fault and she hates it and she hates them for ignoring her even though she’s the one who wanted to be alone in the first place, and she’s the one who pushed them away because she’s to damn scared to talk to people, and she’s the one who stopped going out, and she’s the one who never went out in the first place, and it feels like she wasted another year. Every day’s just a repeat.
And mom says that she should have friends by now, that she’s a big girl and should be mature and that if she continues like this she would never have any friends, and she knows that already. She’s a big girl now, or whatever mom says she is, but she doesn’t feel like one. She doesn’t even feel like she’s experienced her childhood yet. She missed so much, so much that she would never get back. Sleepovers. Playing house. Barefoot in the grass, chasing each other, barefoot in the grass, laughing without a care in the world. And everyone seems like they’ve been through that and enjoyed their past days but Leah can feel nothing but regret, and mourning for lost chances, for childhood innocence gone, even though she’s socially an infant.
She’s zoning out and dissociating but she’d much rather be stuck regretting a shitty past than dealing with a shitty present, so she just unconsciously scratches the pale skin on her bony arms and drowns in her memories
One kid comes up to her, black and white yearbook pages almost completely covered with colorful ink from everyone else. He’s attractive, in a soft way that made him look way more approachable and nice than anyone has any right to be. And she knows that she’s sort of not bad-looking herself too, which was probably the only thing that stood between her and being shoved in a locker, and she hates him for having what she doesn’t have. It’s fucking irrational and doesn’t make any sense but since when did life make sense anyways? She silently, almost mindlessly, scribbles “happy summer vacation!- Leah Hemingway” surrounded by a messy scrawl of a flower border onto the page with a black ballpoint pen and continues her monologue.
She’s never really been able to express her emotions honestly, she realized.
The meanest thing she’s ever done was that she sent a banquet of wilted yellow carnations to a boy, a few minutes after they all graduated from middle school. She vaguely remembers his name as Jason or something- Jason kept on following her when she walked back to school and asked her so many questions and messaged her on instagram. When she handed it to him, he laughed and put his hand behind his neck and told her that he didn’t expect her to be the type, and asked her why she did that.
“I dunno.”
And then they never saw each other again. She ghosted him, basically- she took another route home, she blocked him, she didn’t even remember his name anymore. She never told them that yellow carnations mean rejection and disdain. Sometimes she wonders if he’s figured it out, and sometimes she doesn’t even bother trying to know because they were nothing but ghosts in each other’s life now.
It was such a vague way to tell him to fuck off, honestly, in retrospect. She’s never actually got the guts to tell people off.
She wanted to be loved and then she rejected the only guy who probably loved her because she couldn’t love back.
The meanest thing she’s ever done was that she sent a banquet of wilted yellow carnations to a boy, a few minutes after they all graduated from middle school. She vaguely remembers his name as Jason or something- Jason kept on following her when she walked back to school and asked her so many questions and messaged her on instagram. When she handed it to him, he laughed and put his hand behind his neck and told her that he didn’t expect her to be the type, and asked her why she did that.
“I dunno.”
And then they never saw each other again. She ghosted him, basically- she took another route home, she blocked him, she didn’t even remember his name anymore. She never told them that yellow carnations mean rejection and disdain. Sometimes she wonders if he’s figured it out, and sometimes she doesn’t even bother trying to know because they were nothing but ghosts in each other’s life now.
It was such a vague way to tell him to fuck off, honestly, in retrospect. She’s never actually got the guts to tell people off.
She wanted to be loved and then she rejected the only guy who probably loved her because she couldn’t love back.
Leah rolled her sleeves up. Refused to look at the little scars. It’s not even what it looks like.
Another day without seeing her father. He got up early to play golf before she woke up, and he was out late working and maybe drinking with his acquaintances and underlings, so she got to bed at 9:30 before he came home. Rinse and repeat for the last two days. She should probably be eating dinner at a more normal time like 6, but she had a slice of bread with butter that was 110 calories all together when she got home at 4:35 after she walked in the park a bit so she wasn’t hungry until now at 8.
Sometimes she forgets that he exists. These days didn’t really feel different.
Whatever. Focus. Make your dinner, Leah.
She took a look at the pork, still leaning slightly into the residual heat of the oven like a cat as she yanked her mittens off. The knife she used to slice it isn’t meant to cut meat, but that’s alright. It did its job. That’s what matters. Hmm, a little overcooked. That’s alright, she never really got the appeal of rare meat anyways.
...allright, moving on,
She took out the bottle of gravy from the fridge and set it aside as she cut a slice-of-bread sized bit of meat off. She felt hungry. Her mind didn’t feel hungry. Was that… a common occurrence? It was just 300 calories. Approximately 1/7 of 2000. Relax.
So why couldn’t she relax?
Another day without seeing her father. He got up early to play golf before she woke up, and he was out late working and maybe drinking with his acquaintances and underlings, so she got to bed at 9:30 before he came home. Rinse and repeat for the last two days. She should probably be eating dinner at a more normal time like 6, but she had a slice of bread with butter that was 110 calories all together when she got home at 4:35 after she walked in the park a bit so she wasn’t hungry until now at 8.
Sometimes she forgets that he exists. These days didn’t really feel different.
Whatever. Focus. Make your dinner, Leah.
She took a look at the pork, still leaning slightly into the residual heat of the oven like a cat as she yanked her mittens off. The knife she used to slice it isn’t meant to cut meat, but that’s alright. It did its job. That’s what matters. Hmm, a little overcooked. That’s alright, she never really got the appeal of rare meat anyways.
...allright, moving on,
She took out the bottle of gravy from the fridge and set it aside as she cut a slice-of-bread sized bit of meat off. She felt hungry. Her mind didn’t feel hungry. Was that… a common occurrence? It was just 300 calories. Approximately 1/7 of 2000. Relax.
So why couldn’t she relax?
Liked by versityvariety and 187 others
leahlikesyou Sorry for being a little inactive for the last few weeks. I had a lot of school but now that summer’s here, I can finally post more freely again. Anyways, here’s Susan Moreau! The wig is new and six dollars, please don’t mind it I’m running low on my allowance.
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harold_hitchkins Woah! You’re such a beautiful young lady
monsoonmonster Can you do Mary next?
leahlikesyou Sorry for being a little inactive for the last few weeks. I had a lot of school but now that summer’s here, I can finally post more freely again. Anyways, here’s Susan Moreau! The wig is new and six dollars, please don’t mind it I’m running low on my allowance.
View all 8 comments
harold_hitchkins Woah! You’re such a beautiful young lady
monsoonmonster Can you do Mary next?
She was their sweetheart, their 'mon petit chou', their barely pubescent eye candy. She could put on a little dress and pose with her back arched slightly with some sappy, faux-romantic caption and they would fall for it hook, line, and sinker. She could almost see them, disgusting old men and teenage boys missing any resemblance of decorum, sifting through endless tags and pings and whatnots, before deciding that this picture of her was somehow satisfactory enough for them to tap twice until that little imitation of a heart appeared and was filled up.
She could almost see herself, actually, perched precariously on the chair, phone placed against her, trying to be more pouty, or more fierce, or anything other than herself, really. There could be some sort of uncompromising ethical beliefs spawned from whatever she was doing, pretending to be deceased teenagers for views and clicks, but she doesn’t bother to engage in them much.
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” she sighed, setting her phone down on the little night-table. Her audience, the bed and cracked wallpaper and soft, warm-hued lights, stared down at her complaint with no regard.
She wanted to be their star, light of their life, little petit chou or something resembling that preconceived notion of love, but it’s quite odd how she never really wanted anyone to be her little cabbage. Is it selfish, nay, audacious for her to want that? Hmm? There must be a probably reason why she felt discomfort when they commonted on her. She wanted love. Not lust. Not anything near that.
She hesitated when posting these pictures for a reason. Her body was sacred. A temple for herself and her mind. There would be no debasing it, not tonight, not ever. And those men- looters, perhaps, but in a digital form(?)- commented and liked, she couldn’t gag on the visceral disgust bubbling up in the lungs anymore.
But she couldn’t afford to think about that. First, she needed to work on her 500 follower special.
She could almost see herself, actually, perched precariously on the chair, phone placed against her, trying to be more pouty, or more fierce, or anything other than herself, really. There could be some sort of uncompromising ethical beliefs spawned from whatever she was doing, pretending to be deceased teenagers for views and clicks, but she doesn’t bother to engage in them much.
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” she sighed, setting her phone down on the little night-table. Her audience, the bed and cracked wallpaper and soft, warm-hued lights, stared down at her complaint with no regard.
She wanted to be their star, light of their life, little petit chou or something resembling that preconceived notion of love, but it’s quite odd how she never really wanted anyone to be her little cabbage. Is it selfish, nay, audacious for her to want that? Hmm? There must be a probably reason why she felt discomfort when they commonted on her. She wanted love. Not lust. Not anything near that.
She hesitated when posting these pictures for a reason. Her body was sacred. A temple for herself and her mind. There would be no debasing it, not tonight, not ever. And those men- looters, perhaps, but in a digital form(?)- commented and liked, she couldn’t gag on the visceral disgust bubbling up in the lungs anymore.
But she couldn’t afford to think about that. First, she needed to work on her 500 follower special.