I Hate Romantic Novels

I hate romantic novels.
I hate everything they stand for; I hate their silly and impressionable female protagonists and their strong, misunderstood male counterparts. I despise their soft-lit and mysterious front pages and the swirly pink lettering with pathetic titles like “The Wind Whispered I Love You”.
I hate the way they force the belief that love is eternal and there’s someone for everyone down your throat with every word and paragraph.
Although the thing I despised the most was that my life had become the novel I hated.

It started with a bus. It was a Tuesday. This amuses me. Nothing important ever seems to happen on a Tuesday, but it was the day I first saw him. Laws of the Universe, denied.
He stepped off the rain onto my bus. The first time I saw his face I forgot to breathe. He’s one of those people who are responsible for a large percentage of teenage depression in the surrounding area. People think we’re moody because of hormones. We’re moody because of people like him. That person who could waltz into the Louvre, stand in front of the Mona Lisa, look at her smile and say “Meh”. Like a hurricane he blew through my mind and stripped away ever concept I had of beauty. He sat beside me. He smelled like horses, sunrise and what can only be described as The Sound of Music. I cried inwardly at how I must look next to him. He made the absolutely soaked look work. He seemed to somehow advertise moisture with the way his wet hair curled into a single stand in the middle of his forehead, like Clarke Kent.

I ignored him. Of course. No one the Adonis-like could be a decent person, beauty on the outside is almost a dead giveaway to an inner deceitfulness. You could argue that this is a generalisation but find me one person who looks like this boy who spends more on orphans than he does on his gym membership and I’ll gladly retract the statement. I returned to the mortal world in time to notice most of the other bus participants (men included) were still staring at him. How awkward.

I looked out of the dirty window, casually observing the damp fields that passed by. My eyes made that curious jumpy movement when they glanced from one stationary object to another, I fiddled with my iPod. Numerous people were still staring at him, willing their bodies to absorb some of his beauty for their own. It must be awful to be continually the centre of attention for something you can’t do anything about, I mean, who wants to be uglier? Living in a goldfish bowl because of other people’s jealousy. Listen to me. Oh yeah, looking like a God must be really dreadful. Idiot.

I returned my full attention to the window. Still a long way home. Still a long way to anything. We were in the middle of nowhere; I considered the fact that if a serial killer struck now, we’d be totally helpless. He’d pick us off one by one, Jeepers Creepers style. I laughed at my own stupidity. It was a Tuesday. Serial killers never strike on a Tuesday.
That was when I felt it, right after my inner monologue about the weekly processes of serial killers. I felt someone looking at me. Possibly the standard passenger had managed to rip their eyes off Wonder-Boy long enough to notice dishevelled me sitting next to him. It’s a curious sensation, realising you’re being watched, like when you’re washing dishes and the plug isn’t in properly and you slowly become aware the water level is dropping. It’s gradual, but you knew it all along. Like the Santa Claus Conspiracy.

Eventually I couldn’t take it any more and snapped my head around. It was him. HE was staring at ME. And I mean staring; he looked like he was trying to mentally recall the true meaning, symbolism and religious motifs behind ‘The Matrix’ on my nose. The fact that everyone was staring at him, staring at me made it even more comical.
Comical and intensely creepy. What was he looking at? Being ridiculously attractive doesn’t give you a right to stare. It’s just rude.
The irritation of it itched my skin, his eyes bored laser holes in the side of my head and his own audience started glancing at me in annoyance, robbing them of their Muse. As the situation currently stood I had three options: ignore him, enquire as to his mental capacity or kick his ass. To be fair option three was my back-up plan for every situation, although I had a feeling that if I kicked his ass I would be massacred by his devoted fans of the 12A bus.

“…Do I have something on my face?”
I recognised my own voice. I had decided to go for option two then, I find my body often makes decision before my mind actually clears them as safe/mentally sane. This (as you can imagine) results in many problems.
Wonder-Boy looked shocked; he somehow managed to look shocked in the most incredible, dazzling way that my heart rate actually increased. How embarrassing.

“I-I… I’m not sure. Let me check”
That was his voice. It was rougher than I expected, my brain barely had enough time to register it before the boy with the billion dollar face leaned in and kissed me. Then my brain liquefied as it tried to come up with enough descriptive detail to save the memory on its hard-drive.
My body responded instinctively, skipping straight to option three. I was no Bond Girl to be stunned into silence by this man of mystery and then toyed with for personal gain. I hit him, hard. A classic Bruce Willis right cross to his eye. Needless to say the kissing stopped.

He glared at me, hurt. His hand flew to his face to protect but he wasn’t quick enough. My left hand grabbed his throat and squeezed, he managed a brief “Ow” before my fingers closed off his windpipe. He stayed completely still as the oxygen was cut off from his brain, his eyes wide with fear. My own were narrowed in disgust. Just who the hell did he think he was?
I verbalised the though.

“Just who the hell do you think you are?!”

It took me a few moments to realise that because I was refusing him air, he couldn’t breathe to provide his blood with enough oxygen to manipulate his vocal chords in order to receive an answer. In that few moments he had gone the approximate colour of Papa Smurf. I let go.

I Hate Romantic Novels

ItsRipleyBitch

Newtownards, United Kingdom

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

This is a random section from a random novel that I am half-heartedly writing at the minute. I love writing but I don’t get much chance because of school and stuff. I’m not even realy sure what genre it falls under but I hope you like it :)

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