Creative Writing: Anathema

Once there was a girl. A girl that didn’t think she ever mattered. Sure, she had good parents and decent grades, but she never thought herself to be worth anymore than a plastic wrap on the ground. The girl isolated herself whenever she could, only speaking when it was required by her teachers. Even so, half the grade thought she was mute. She learned a fair amount of sign language to encourage the rumor, just so that more people would leave her alone. If anyone had truly paid attention to her, they would see that Anathema was always listening to music. Unless, of course, she was reading. She had what people would call friends, but they were certainly not that to Anathema. Dimitri and Asia managed to catch her attention one morning before
school. The two students offered to walk her up to class after seeing her alone, and Anathema had never experienced such kindness from a pair of strangers, so she went the rest of the way with them, still half buried in her book.
She smiled whenever she saw them in the halls, but Anathema never considered them to be true friends of hers. Fortunately, Dimitri and Asia were more than happy to be just that.
Other than those two, Anathema didn’t talk to anyone. Maybe Sean and Alex would stop by her locker to say hello before making their way to Chemistry hand in hand. Maybe Skye would give her a small smile as she went to sit down hurriedly because class was technically in session.
But to summarize, Anathema had no friends. She preferred it that way. Everyone would be better off without her.
Anathema rushed into History, taking a seat by the back near the window.
Other teens were chatting with each other, while Anathema read through her notes. All of her reading material had been finished the night before with her homework, and there was nothing in the class library that she hadn’t read before.
Even though she’d never admit to it, Anathema was smart. Tremendously smart. She just hated attention. The girl would do anything to avoid it. Even if that meant purposely getting questions wrong on tests and homework assignments. This way, she was just another average girl that no one would bother.
One day, Anathema sat down at her usual spot to find a small, black book in the desk compartment. This was quite odd because, well, no one used those compartments anymore. That was precisely why Anathema stored many items there. No one, not even janitors bothered to check
them.
She pulled the leather bound book out, curious to see if it belonged to anyone.
It was the first class of the day, meaning that someone must’ve left it the night before. Much to Anathema’s surprise, there were no markings on the book. It was as if it had been recently purchased, but there was no tag to confirm the suspicion.
Anathema’s fingertips grazed the black cover, a satisfying feeling washing over her. She opened the book to find messy ink pen on the cover page.
“Happy Early Birthday Anathema!” The handwriting was not familiar to Anathema. The writer seemed to be in a hurry with the pen being all smudged. It also gave the possibility of the writer being left-handed, but Anathema shooed the thought away; there were more attentive matters to address.
Her fingers traced the cursive, freezing once she ran over her name. She then quickly flipped through the book, finding empty pages of lined paper that caused Anathema’s eyes to sparkle with delight. Her eyes darted around, wondering if the present-giver was anyone in her class, but she chuckled at the thought. No one in this class knew her. During oral presentations, her name would be called, and the majority of the class would whisper,
“Who?” Anathema flipped to the first lined page and wrote with her black mechanical pencil, “Property of: Anathema Way, The Cursed Pathfinder.” She had given herself the childish name after figuring out her first name literally meant, “curse.” Her parents never meant it that way, they just didn’t realize the meaning until after it had been printed on the birth certificate. Anathema never complained. If anything, it was cool to have a name with such a bizarre definition. Anathema flipped to the next page where she hesitated for only a short moment before scribbling excitedly at the top of the page, “Brainstorm.” She might as well put this to use, right? Someone had cared enough to give it to her, and it would be awfully rude to waste. That day, Anathema walked around school buried in the small, leatherbound, black book. Only occasionally would she glance up to make sure she wasn’t missing anything too important in her classes.
Anathema couldn’t stop writing. The words kept pouring onto the page like a raging waterfall. She wrote down ideas for poems and songs that she had cooped up in her brain for years, afraid to say them aloud.
This book broke that barrier. Determination surged through her, and for once, Anathema felt like she had a purpose.
This simple, black book gave her a shot at doing something wonderful. It gave her a shot at creating a representation of her emotions, something she had never been able to do without extreme anxiety. Writing in this book eliminated that.
One day, Anathema would fill those pages. One day, she would find friends that would help share those pages with the world:
“Anathema Way, The Cursed Pathfinder?” The guy would question, floating above Anathema’s shoulder.
“Childish, I know,” She’d chuckle, embarrassed.
“Nah, I like it,” They replied with a smile.
These friends would create beautiful music with her, and show her that she was more than just average. Every day for the rest of her life, Anathema thanked the anonymous giver because thanks to them, Anathema Way, The Cursed Pathfinder forged her own path.