Is It Me You're Looking For?

"Is it me you're looking for?"

I’m always that outcast kid, my nose pressed against the clear cold window, casting breaths of air which continuously fogged up the glass. Looking outside seeing everyone else socialising with their friends, talking about boys or playing sport on the footy field all having a good time. I feel like I don't belong in my family, so why should I feel like I belong anywhere else? I may be included but I never really feel like I belong.

The bell, which sounded like a car horn being held down in frustration soon rang and off to class. Like every other day, moping along, being bumped and nudged like a pinball machine, with hundreds of people walking up and down the corridor, but as usual everywhere I looked no one looked like me or even acknowledged that I was there. Not long after sitting down conscientiously in my usual seat, which was in the back corner, Mrs Cartwright briskly walked through the wooden timber doors. "Good morning students," she exclaimed enthusiastically. It soon came to my attention as Mrs Cartwright gathered a large pile of green paper, and started to distribute them to various students. I knew from the get go that we were receiving a new assignment. It consisted of a biography of ourselves starting from an infant to an adolescent. Unlike most assignments, which are boring or irrelevant, past history always seemed to elude me and something that was never discussed.

That afternoon walking home on a cold and misty London day, absorbing the city like surroundings and the beautiful dark hedges along the sidewalk, with an inseparable fragrance. I found this a source of therapy which always seemed to be the most welcome event of the day. Walking was often a time of reflection, tossing and turning thoughts in my mind, like clothes in a washing machine. A topic that was always unforgettable was why am I so different from everyone else? Why don't I have at least one thing in common with my brother or sister and even mum and dad? Their skin is much lighter than mine.

Turning along Main Road Street, about a block away from my house I found myself running, desperately wanting to start my biography. Reaching the front door of my house on Abigail Avenue, frantically walking through the front door and immediately rushing to the attic. Greeting mother with a wave, while walking past the kitchen acknowledging that I was home safely. I soon dropped my bag at the front of my bedroom door and walking down the hall way to the stairs that lead to the attic. Walking up the eight narrow wooden stairs anxiously one by one, then finding my feet on the wooden rusty floor boards. Taking a minute to embrace the surroundings, with low timber beams and dusty boxes/garbage sacks quietly dying amongst the cobwebs. Sure it was difficult to stand upright, but there just happened to be enough room for me.

Looking around I suddenly spotted a white labelled tag which read “photos”. Without hesitation, manoeuvring my way through the dust and cobwebs, I picked the sticky tape off the seams of the cardboard box and opened it cautiously. Picking up the first bunch of photos and carefully wiping the dust of it with my shirt, I untwisted the rubber band that held it tightly together. I started flipping through the old black and white photos. After glancing through three piles of photos I soon came to the realisation I never found one photo from when I was a baby. They were all from when I was three years onward. This issue left me guessing. Why are there no photos of me, from when I was a baby? All the photos I can find are all of my brother and sister. Wasn't I good enough to have baby photos? Getting emotional I gathered all the photos together and carefully placed them back in the box where I first found them. Walking down stairs and back through the hall way I didn’t know what to think and so many terrible thoughts went through my mind.