SARA by Katelyn Marie (best historical fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

CHAPTER 1: I Am Sara

I am what I am, a product of free will, bad choices and factors beyond my control. I am neurotic, compulsive and practically boarderline insane. I am an insomniac, a whore, and an annorexic. I am me, a compilation of selfishness and denial. I am a pesimist, a cynical fuck, with broken laces, ripped jeans and blonde hair. My stomach sinks in and my favorite breakfast is chocolate milk. I love, well I used to. I loved hard, but with motive. That is my downfall- always a motive. I am always running far away, with each step ripping my roots from their home. I am depressed. I am lost. I am Sara.
I am a wanderer, constantly in places that I should not be, but its what makes me feel alive. I objectify. I reject because I am rejected. I am a vegabond. I am home basically anywhere because essentially I do not belong anywhere. I am completely disconnected and I am partly ashamed. I am contradictory and defiant. I am alone, but I'm not lonely, at least that's what I make myself believe. My life is always a fuckin' mess and to be honest it wouldn't be my life if it wasn't. I am me. I am Sara.
I'm listening to the wheels of my suitcase dragging across the airport floor, the signs above me directing me towards terminal D. My face is expressionless and my eyes stare straight ahead. I know they're staring at me, devouring my body with their eager eyes. I want to hide. My steps become uneven and my cheeks redden; I feel the heat. I'm nervous but I continue. I pass an older man and look directly at him. I see his eyes but he doesn't look into mine. He only sees tits. Disgusting. Fuck men and their small brains. I have a soul, I swear. I am a person and I do feel. I am angry. I continue across the linolium, looking for D1.
CHAPTER 2: Men And Sara

Men. They're everything and nothing to me. They've destroyed me and they have made me. They're my addiction, my weakness and everything I fuckin' hate, but I need them. I am a whore. I am an addict. I am a feign for a relationship, wandering into the arms of the worst, the undeserving. I should have been something more, something so much more, but I was cursed from the beginning by factors beyond my control. I was destined to be fucked.

CHAPTER 3: Think, Sara, Think

You get what you give and if shit is what you offer, fuckin' shit is what you'll get. I guess karma is real and accurately named - a bitch. Oh, I'm fucking always somewhere I don't belong, but it's not my money, just my time, so I don't really mind that much anyway. Somewhere subconsciously in this fucked up piece of shit brain of mine, I made the connection that this wasn't going to go well; however, this connection will always be irrelevant and not worth another thought because it didn't stop me. Free will baby.
I am always using and being used. It's a cycle. I am disgraced. I am jet lagged, waiting for yet another flight back "home". Fourteen hours later, my brains fucked onto the floor and I'm sent home. I should medicate to escape but I already feel sufficiently fucked up, enough to endure the rest of the trip. Inside I am crying so loudly, the echoes bash off my brain, but I continue, my eyes straight foward. Nothing makes sense to me anymore. Fuck love. Fuck men. Fuck me. Fuck Fuck Fuck.
People are fucked. Simple. People do fucked up shit to one another. People are wreckless and insensitive but most of all, they don't think. I don't think. That's why I'm here, across the country, alone, red circles bantering, begging for more tears. I don't ever fucking think of the consequences. I don't think and I feel too much. I saw the signs and as much as I saw them, I felt them. I refused to listen because I'm a fucking stubborn bitch. I had to live it, to understand it.
I am a bad variable. I fuck up the equation every time. Good bye San Diego. You are just a dream, I suppose in a more literal conext of a dream that only I am able to understand, since I arrived only hours before, only to sleep on my stomach between green sheets. I am disappointed. Fuck it. Forget it and move on. I keep falling, slipping back into the same pattern because this is the thought process - if you forget about it, essentially it never happend. My conscience is eating me. Eating. I cannot eat. I don't mind though, food is sick in general. Maybe I'm dieing. It won't matter, I have been for a long time now.

CHAPTER 4: Plane

Air planes. Tears. Mistakes. I don't know where the fuck I'm going. The dike in front of me is crushing me with her damn reclined seat. I hope she's comfortable. I don't want to go back to the east coast. I don't want to stay in one environment. I want to change. I am a vegabond forever. No home. No sleep. All my fucking awesome decisions, a compilation, earning an interesting life. This, another sorrow I can add to the list. Maybe this wouldn't have happend or maybe it would have been twice as bad as the knife sifting deeper into my shoulder blades- maybe this knife would have twisted harder or dug deeper had I not already been the one to betray him first. He still doesn't even know, but he struck me hard anyway. Karma. Fuck you. You bitch.
The words are no more. I will not let them. I gave up analyzing myself and my reasoning. I have to learn again, to dissect my thoughts, to be realistic and mostly honest. I have to change or I will self destruct. I have to go "home" and figure out who the hell I am, what the fuck I want and where the hell I'm going. I am in mourning of my lost soul. I need to give up my addiction. Men, they're constant. Always fuckin retarted. I don't ever really love them.
I won't see his face anymore when I lay down at night with another. I won't think of him in the morning or while I'm getting fucked. He can't bother me anymore. He's dead to me. I know how I feel and now I know it was nothing more than a simple mistake. I need sleep.
CHAPTER 5: LAYOVER

Another layover. Again, the east coast. The west rejected me. I don't want to think about another. The probability of me engaging myself with someone of purpose and morals are slim. I'm immoral at the center of my being and that's why I am attracted, actually, addicted to assholes. I find in them the qualities that compose me. Oh fuck it, I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't need anyone. I'm just bored with life and its mundaine routines. I am always looking for someone to save me, to rip my by my stem, to detach me from the bitter roots. I don't want to be me anymore. I don't want to be Sara.

Chapter 6: Go back, Sara

I don't want to think about it. I don't want to know where I went wrong or think about the things I did. I'm ashamed of the person I am. I don't want to relive it, just to throw it away and forget about it, like it never happend. But I can't, I mean, I really shouldn't. I run the risk of doing something like this again until I am broken. I'm already broken.
I get up from my seat in the airport, in terminal B. It is late, I am tired but I cannot sleep. My next flight is in three hours and I feel the urge to be honest. I walk to the small airport store. I look at the books, no. I look for paper, yellow. OK. I try and find a decent pen but they do not work so well. Damn it. Maybe this is a sign, maybe I do not need a confrontation with words. I can get better, alone. Fuck it. I need this pen and this pad of writing paper. I hand it to the lady, sliding it across the counter. $8.95, in cash, I pay and head back towards my seat, stuffing the nickel into my pocket, crushing my flight stubs.
C

hapter 7: Write, Sara, Write

I knew him years before. He sat behind me, first row, in math class. I never payed attention though. He was quiet and weird. He had dark hair and an ok complexion, but tons of freckles. He wasn't handsome and sure as hell wasn't smart. I didn't need his attention, but this is when I had a family, a father. I hated his skater shoes and tight pants. I thought he was a fag. I didn't get involved. I sat in the first seat, first row, my hair neatly parted. I was smart. I had it all. He wasn't anything and I knew that; no reason to bother.
It's so hard to go back into my mind, to think of these things, where I went wrong. It's so fuckin painful. I do not want to do this. I close the yellow sheet of paper on my lap and turn up the music on my ipod louder. Fuck California. Fuck everyone. Fucking assholes. I shut my eyes and I see the palm trees, his green bed spread and I open my eyes again. Fuckin' a. I open the pad of paper again. You need to get better, I tell myself. Write.
I had been out of high school for a year and a half. My family was fucked. My father didn't want me anymore. My mother's absense literally killed me. My boyfriend fucked around on me and then would fuck me. He used me. I knew he was lying. I knew I was being fucked over. It didn't matter. I needed him, he was all I had left. Really though, come to think of it, I had no one left. No one wanted me. I wondered each day how I would make it through, most mornings just laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. I had enough of my boyfriend and I left his home. Vegabond. I slept in random places for months. My favorite had been an older friend's sofa, until I slept with him. That was just the beginning of my deterioration.
I inhale deep. It still doesn't feel real. None of this. I watch the people in the middle of the terminal, dragging their suitcases, another eating a cream cheese filled bagel, and a few others on their cell phones. Most wear a smile. I wonder where they're going, probably to see someone that loves them. I watch a few more people pass and wonder about them and their lives and think that maybe someone is going through the same thing. No one is. No one could possibly be this fucked up. I want to cry but I won't.
I reached a point in my life where nothing was worth it anymore, nothing mattered; then he came along. He returned home from