Do fairytales really exist? I’ve always thought of myself as the protagonist in my very own story, overcoming obstacles and discovering my destiny. I always thought that I had a destiny to fulfill. Sure, there are some people who might live ordinary, unexceptional lives, but I would be different. I would live an extraordinary story.
Lately I’ve been losing my belief in fairytales. In stories in general. My life isn’t a story, it’s just bits of people I’ve tried to be, half-hoped dreams, and lies that I’ve told myself. Nobody tells the story of the girl who was an average soccer player who sometimes likes running and thought about joining the track team but decided it was too much work. No one writes about the selfish daughter of a much-loved woman, a daughter who spends more time planning her Sweet Sixteen than being with her dying mother. There isn’t a fairytale about a teenage girl who was vaguely attractive, but only to boys whom she could never love because she was far too self centred to care about their feelings. Nor is there one about the girl who had a best friend on each arm, both of which she was jealous of, neither of which she could trust with her secrets.
It’s not a story as much as it is a mess. I keep my lips tightly closed to keep the tangled ends of it inside, and hurridly stuff the bits in that have begun to leak out. The only thing worse than being a failure-as an athlete, as a friend, as a girlfriend, and as a daughter-is everyone knowing it, seeing it tattooed in tears across my face.
The most I can hope for now is a fast car and a long empty road. I can’t escape the shreds of my failed fairytale, but maybe I can avoid the reality of my own budding tragedy.