Love Shot X Shot of Love
Cry for me X Cry for me
I remember everything. The sweetest memories of grief-stricken, haunt me, not with fear, but with regret.
Zara ariffin-10 years
"Hey, why are you crying?”
It must be a hundred degrees today. I sat on the heated sidewalk at the end of my driveway. Not my home. My home is back, sitting quietly, thousands of miles away in Singapore. The house that sat behind me was just a place that my parents bought me and selfishly decided that we should stay. At least that's what I believe to be ten years old.
I want my real home back. The one where I marked the wall with art and a beautiful Crayola set. The artwork is correct, my father would say, even if my mother was angry in the background. I wanted our treehouse to have built two years earlier where I hid myself comfortably from all the bullies and the problems all the shy ten-year-old girls faced
Butno. Dad decided without asking me, his family, to move us to Singapore. I have never heard of it, nor do I care to learn anything about it. What I do know is that I am no longer home. Yes, I was crying. My skinny legs were laid straight, and exposed, aside from my shorts, in front of me. Concretely burning my pale skin.
I looked at the brown haired girl who had now been protecting the unbearable sun from my eyes. The first thing I noticed, other than the color of her hair, was the equally attractive clothes she wore. Neon blue leggings, making the spots that mark her skin visible from head to toe, pop. Purple top with the same skills as the bottom. And orange, glittering, sequined type, hand-sized wallet wrapped slashing all over small, but not thin like my own, body.
It is a headache that drives a variety of colors and incompatible pieces of fabric. But he wears with confidence I have no habit with.
The second thing I noticed after picking up her wardrobe choice, was that she resembled me. Not in appearance, for a fire-led girl with an immeasurable amount of freckles is different from my black hair and uncontaminated skin. But she was crying, just like me.
"Umm," I was embarrassed, and I cried. Having a few girls, who looked my age, approached me until it suddenly made me nervous. "My father made us move out of our house, and move here."I sniffed, wiping my nose with the bottom of my tank.
"Oh, don't you like your new home?"The brown haired girl asked, still standing on top of me, her hands held straight to her side.
"I don't know."I began to fidget with the Perverted stone my hand stumbled when my left side. Always have to sit on my hands with a task when nervous. "I haven't been inside.”
He thought for a moment, watching as I played unenthusiastically with a small piece of earth. "Why not?”
He sniffled before I responded, reminding me he was sad just like me. Honestly, the hopeless look in her eyes told me that she was probably more disappointed than I was.
"I don't want to go in anymore."My parents said that I would have a bigger room in this house. I will have my own bathroom that I do not have to share with my siblings. I will also have a balcony. But I don't care what they call, upgrade. I never liked anything new. I have always felt safer, and more comfortable in what I have lived, shaped by myself. The change only served to frighten my timid mind.
As I kept awkwardly rolling rocks between my boney fingers, I heard another nuisance. Looking at the shadowy figure of my new acquaintance, I asked, "Why are you crying?”
Xxxxxxxx
Zara Ariffin – 10 years old
“Hey, why are you crying?”
It must be a hundred degrees out today. I’m sitting on the heated sidewalk at the end of my house’s driveway. Well not my house. My house is back, sitting lonely, thousands of miles away in Singapore. The house that sits behind me is just a place my parents bought and personally decided we have to live in. At least that’s what my ten year old self believes.
I want my real house back. The one where I marked the walls with my beautiful artistry and Crayola sets. True works of art, my dad would say, despite my mom’s angry twigs in the background. I want the treehouse we had built two years earlier where I hid away comfortably from all the bullies and problems all shy ten year old girls faced.
But no's. Dad decided without asking me, his family, to move us to Singapore. I had never heard of it, nor did I care to learn anything about it. All I know was I was no longer home. So yes, I was crying. My scrapy legs laid straight, and bare, aside from my shorts, out in front of me. The concrete burning my pale skin.
I look up at the brown haired girl who currently was shielding the unforgiving sun from my eyes. The first things I notice, besides the color of her hair, is the equally eye-catching outfit she wears. Neon blue leggings, making the freckles that mark her skin seemingly from head to toe, pop. A purple top with just as much finesse as the bottoms. And an orange, glittered, sort of sequined, hand sized purse draped diagonally across her small, but not as thin as my own, body.
It was a head ache inducing array of mismatched colors and pieces of fabric. Yet she wore it with confidence I had no familiarity with.
The second thing I noticed after taking in her wardrobe choice, was that she resembled me. Not in appearance, for the fire headed girl with un-countable amounts of freckles controlled my black hair and troubled skin greatly. But she was crying, just like me.
“Umm,” I’m shy, and I’m crying. Having some girl, who appears to be my age, approaches me so suddenly makes me nervous. “My dad made us move away from our house, and move here.” I sniffle, wiping my snotty nose with the bottom of my tank top.
“Oh, do you not like your new house?” The brown haired girl asked, still standing impossible above me, her hands helped straight to her sides.
“I don’t know.” I start to fidget with a stray rock my hands stumble upon to my left side. Always needing to happen my hands with a task when nervous. “I haven’t gone inside yet.”
She thinks for a moment, watching as I play unenthusiastically with the small piece of earth. “Why not?”
She hiccups before I respond, reminding me she’s sad just as I am. Honestly, the hopeless look in her eyes tells me she just might be even more upset than me.
“I just don’t want to go in yet.” My parents say I’ll have a bigger room in this house. I’ll have my own bathroom I won’t have to share with my siblings. I’ll even have a balcony. But I don’t care about what they call, an upgrade. I’ve never liked new things. I’ve always felt safer, and more comfortable in what has been lived in, molded by myself. Change has only served to scare my timid mind.
As I continue awwardly rolling the rock between my boney fingers, I hear another hiccup. Looking at the shadowy figure of my new acquisition, I ask, “Why are you crying?”
