My Teenage Love: I’m A Girl After All

He is a green-eyed young man with the most angelic face I have ever seen. He’s 185cm tall, well-dressed and soft-spoken. He was just a 13 years old gentle giant who’s well-balanced for his age. Even until now, I still sometimes titter, reminiscing how his gentle smile and shiny dirty blonde hair melts my heart like a layer of fat in a hot skillet.

I, a soul as dark as an abandoned home, a young female with her rough masculinity, her stabbing black eyes, shadowed by her long jet-black hair. Her dark skin defines her everyday activities, being regularly under the sun. I only knew, my life back then was nothing more, but a troubled memory to look back in the future, yet he became my only light in the darkness.

I was an alcoholic during my high school years. Strangely, my teachers never complained, possibly because I was doing well with my grades at school. And also, I was the only female boxer that represents our school. I know it seems like an odd theory, but I couldn’t think of anything else as a reason otherwise. Every day I start my boxing training very early, like three o’ clock in the morning. However, I do drink a few shots of brandy before I begin my training. I train for at least a minimum of 4 hours a day, it was perhaps my best outlet as I hate crying. Each time I am reminded of my depression as a daughter and as a teenager, I only drink it in and sweat it all off.

The first time Louvuille and I laid our eyes on each other. It was a cold four o’ clock in the morning. I was walking and just about to cross the road when the car suddenly appeared right behind me. Unfortunately, the attempt to step back was too short, I accidentally broke the side mirror of his dad’s car. It was my fault because I wasn’t walking on the sidewalk, I was too confident that no vehicle will pass by. I can still picture in slow motion when the car stopped and the sliding door revealed his milk-white complexion, rosy cheeks, and his bright green eyes. I felt like he’s the antidote of my long poisoned heart. Love, at first sight? I know it’s extremely mawkish for my personality, but yes it was.

” Are you alright? I’m so sorry we did not notice you crossing the road”, his anxious voice.

My arse on the mud, my body felt squishy leaning against a road sign that states “Blind curve,” as I try to clear my head blurred and so as my slurred words, my drunkenness.

“I’mm’a live, bruises don’t kill.” my slurred words of annoyance.

He extends his hand, waiting for me to receive it, but the rum I consumed hours before made my head feeling so light that all I could do is gaze at his face with my cumbersome smile. I’d say I looked like an idiot, surprised at seeing a white boy’s face that close. They offered to take me to the nearest Hospital, but I refused. Instead, I stood up and continued to walk on my way home.

“Wait! miss! We can’t just let you walk alone in that condition, you are all muddy, bruised and you are so drunk you barely walk steadily. ”

“Blah! I might puke on you.. just’ go.” I chuckled hearing his desperate tone trying to stop me.

“Such a stubborn girl,” his tone slightly annoyed.

I Shrugged as if I don’t care and gave him a more annoying smirk and said

“Don’t call me lady you milk fish.”

A few weeks later, we bumped into each other again. As weird as it seems, I was wearing same dirty acid wash jeans and a black shirt with its sleeves scissored to look punk trashy. With a Marlboro cigarette, between my fingers, I noticed him walking down from an establishment within the compound of a nearby church. That’s when I found out that he’s a missionary from Ireland. He saw me from afar and waved his hand. Strangely, in spite of seeing me repeatedly in the same state, he always delivers a very friendly smile.

“Hi, what’s the craic? Is your arm ok now? I was afraid that you broke your arm after it got hit by the side mirror.”

His accent just fascinated me, but with my natural ill-natured attitude that seemed difficult to suppress,” I could only give him a smirk.

“You seem like a tough girl with a good sense of humour,” – He thought I was trying to be funny.

Deep inside my body, perspiring alcohol and cigarette sweat, there’s a crossfire between my twitterpated heart and my over-protective-ego. He was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen in my life, but I couldn’t express that feeling.

He then asked me “Are you available this Sunday?” He extended his hand and introduced himself.

“My name is Louvuille Maxwell, I’m from Sligo Ireland. And you are?”

I turned my eyes to the Church after he asked me. “Tootsie is my name.”

Then I looked at his smiling face that obviously he wants to invite me to go to church on Sunday which made me feel OFF. And so without hesitation I asked him.

” You are one of those who sings church songs and wave their hands in the air?” Sounding mockery.

“Yes, but I can’t put my hands in the air since I have to play the guitar while singing for the Lord.” His very enthusiastic response just shunned my arrogance.

Since then, we became friends, spend time teaching street children to read and write, I am not a church person and I admire him for being a God-loving boy without being creepy religious. It was the beginning that I realized I am a girl and I like pretty boys..

Louvuille understands the real me behind my misinterpreted character. I don’t remember that he had ever made me feel of how terrible I am as a person. He simply has the ability to make me less aggressive and less pessimistic.

Now that I’m 29, I still keep in my mind his words of wisdom.Your God given artistic skills are meant for you to define and design a clearer image of  what you want to become, no matter how obscure they might be for now.


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