Miranda (story/poem-thingy)

I never had much to do with Miranda until the day that I found out that we had something in common: we both liked a song by a certain band. Then I started thinking about her all the time. I began to notice that Miranda was extremely beautiful. Miranda had dark wavy hair, hazel eyes, pale pink skin, and delicate lips. Her voice was unique and enchanting, as well.
But there were a few problems: Miranda and I went to a church that taught it was a sin to act on homosexual feelings. Besides, she was heterosexual. There was no way that we could be any more than just friends.
Of course, this did not stop me from trying to socialize with Miranda. I figured that we could at least be friends. As time went by, I obsessed more and more over Miranda. Eventually, I deluded myself into thinking that maybe we had a chance together.
Even though we were becoming friends, this wasn't enough for me. What I really wanted was to have a deep emotional connection with Miranda, and that wasn't happening.
One day, Miranda did not greet me at church, which really hurt. I couldn't tell anyone why I was upset, because even if people accepted my sexuality, they would probably laugh at me for being so petty.
Later that day, my church leader gave a lesson on unity. But there's no unity here, I thought. Being the outspoken person I was (and still am), I said exactly that. I continued to say that the girls at church were often in cliques and that I felt left out at times. I thought of Miranda not acknowledging me earlier that day.
After the lesson, Miranda complimented me for my thoughtful insight, and I wondered why I was so depressed in the first place.
Still, I remained lonely. Actually, what I wanted was an excuse to see Miranda, so I invited some girls from church over, including Miranda.
While these girls were over at my house, they began to talk. Miranda, who was a year older than I was, began to talk about high school, telling me what to expect.
"At high school, you'll see people kissing who shouldn't be kissing," said Miranda. "If you know what I mean."
I was devastated and was quiet the rest of the evening. I hoped that Miranda didn't really believe that and that she was just trying to hide her true "feelings" for me, which, of course, was wishful thinking.
Months later, I went to a church-related event that Miranda had told her about. It was a lecture from their bishop. He quoted Isaiah 5:20, "Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter." He asked how this related to the world today and mentioned diversity.
"What do people mean when they say 'diversity?'" he asked.
"Lifestyle," Miranda responded.
"What do you mean by that?" asked the bishop.
"Some people are, um, more adventurous while others are more into staying at home?" she said.
"Okay, how about you," he said, pointing to a girl in the audience.
"Sexual orientation?" said the girl.
The bishop was not saying anything that was particularly anti-gay, but I knew that people would make such comments. Tears began to roll down my cheek, and I excused myself.
A church leader asked me what was wrong. I tried to talk it out without confessing her crush on Miranda. During that time, I also helped to prepare the root beer floats, which would be the refreshments.
After the lecture, I heard Miranda talk about gay people. I didn't hear exactly what she said, but it didn't sound good. I cried even more, realizing that Miranda would most likely be disgusted by my feelings. Still, I wished that Miranda would notice the frown on my face and try to comfort me. I continued to trick myself into thinking that Miranda was actually in love with me.
I tried to drink her root beer float, but I couldn't. The evening had turned sweetness bitter.
The next day was the beginning of church camp. Although I enjoyed camp, I was still depressed about what had happened that night. During free time, I began to talk to one of my other church leaders, Sister McBride. Believing I could trust Sister McBride, I told her that I had a crush on another girl (not mentioning her name, of course)
Although Sister McBride meant well, she did not respond in the way I had hoped. Despite her compassionate intent, her views were bigoted.
"God loves you," she said. "And He did not mean for you to be a lesbian."
I was mortified. I had trusted Sister McBride for a long time, and now I was unable to trust her. As comforting as Sister McBride tried to be, it was hard for me to be comforted when Sister McBride was also trying to convert me to some religious belief.
After what seemed like forever, church camp was over.
Soon, it was Sunday. I put on a black dress, striped tights, and black shoes. I brushed my long golden hair and put a black bow in it. Last, I put on a silver necklace with a heart-shaped charm that had a keyhole in the middle.
I've always hated church. It was long and often boring, and when it wasn't boring, it was because someone said something controversial.
That day, we got a new youth group leader named Sister Watson. She had a bubbly personality and she seemed like a caring person.
Sister McBride gave a lesson and handed out cookies afterwards.
As I started to walk home with my family, I began to feel dizzy. I saw Miranda wearing a pink and blue dress, golden shoes, and gold jewelry. She was carrying a key. I looked at my necklace, and then again at Miranda, who walked slowly towards me. Miranda put the key in the keyhole in my necklace, shattering it. I felt a sharp pain in her chest, and then saw that the key in Miranda's hand was really a tiny knife. Miranda walked away, not seeming to notice that I was on my knees, pleading for help.
I wasn't sure how I survived that incident.
The next week, I went to church again, wearing the same dress, with the same sharp pain in my chest. When I saw Miranda, all I could think about was how Miranda had stabbed my heart and left me to die.
During the Sunday school lesson, I hid in a dark closet, sobbing. The pain in my chest was sharper than ever. I began to scream. I opened the door to the closet, and saw that Miranda was there.
"I was looking for you," she said, before shrieking in horror.

Miranda: She had bloody scars all over her face. Her heart was showing through her chest, and it had a hole in it shaped like a key. She grabbed me by the arm, scratching it and causing it to bleed. What was wrong with her? What had I done wrong?

What was wrong with me? I didn't know. I apologized to Miranda later that day, but every week continued the same way. She was always there, prancing around in her pink and blue dress, ignoring my existence. Then it all went back to normal, and I have no idea why she shrieked whenever she saw me, even before I did anything.

Miranda: I had no idea what was going on. Once she was really friendly, and then she turned out like this? Why does she hate me so much? Why does she terrorize me?

I eventually figured out that I transformed into some frightening creature whenever this happened. But maybe that was a defense mechanism to protect her from the thing that would scare her even more: my romantic feelings for her. Although they were mostly gone, there was this part of me that still liked her. Why did I ever like Miranda, anyway? There's nothing special about her. Sure, she's beautiful on the outside, but not on the inside. She's self-righteous and shallow.
Meanwhile, I became very close to Sister Watson. One day, she asked why I was so mean to Miranda. At first I was hesitant to tell the truth because of how Sister McBride reacted, but I think she figured out what happened.
It felt good to tell someone, but that didn't solve the problem. Miranda was still prancing around in her pink and blue dress, ignoring my existence, and she still shrieked whenever she saw me.
"I hate Miranda," I said to one of my church leaders one day.
"That's not a very nice thing to say," she responded. "And did you hear she's moving to Arizona?"
Good riddance, Miranda, I thought. Good riddance.
Miranda would surely stop tormenting me after she moved away, right?
I was wrong. One night as I was trying to fall asleep, I saw her, in my room, prancing around in her pink and blue dress, ignoring my existence. I took out the closest thing I could find to a weapon (I have no idea what it was because it was so dark) and hit her with it.
The next morning, I had a headache and a black eye. Blood was coming out of my mouth and nose. But I finally realized something: I needed to make peace with Miranda, Sister McBride, and perhaps most importantly, myself. I talked to my counselor and to people I trusted.
Looking back on it, I don't think I ever loved Miranda. If I had really loved her, it wouldn't have turned out like this. I wanted more than anything to be with her and true love never expects anything from the other person. I became selfish, which caused me to hate her. Love is never selfish, and is certainly not hateful. Perhaps infatuation, not hate, is the opposite of true love.
I cut off all contact with Miranda, which may have been the right thing. Now, three years later, I look back. She never meant to break my heart. It was all a hallucination. Why did I hurt her when she did nothing wrong? Why did I let her spirit haunt me when she was gone? She was a beautiful girl. I remember her saying she missed me when she visited shortly after she moved. Even if it was true, I didn't deserve it. I had hurt her too many times. I could never face her again.