My fictional writing piece that was me writing an observational piece….Judge all you want.

So this is the piece I wrote for my class. I’d love feedback:

 

That noise is all I hear sometimes. It sounds the exact same. I heard it when my teachers told me I needed to step up in school. I heard it when my mom told me about the dangers of drugs and alcohol, and when she talks about Dad in a bad way. I’m now just hearing it again from my personal trainer in front of about ten guys that I know are going to look at me differently when I come here. The noise is a high-pitched noise, that my body has trained itself to insert into every conversation that I find repetitive and useless. I don’t have time for this kind of crap anymore. I just don’t.

“Katie, you need to…”, then the noise chimes in, and drowns out all my other thoughts as I stare blankly into my trainers beautiful blue eyes. I stare more as if I’m concerned, but I know he’s not worried about it. He got paid. My hearing starts to come back as I hear the clanking of weights on machines and muscular meat-heads talk about their latest conquest or some health recipe or how big some other guy’s trapezius muscle is, whatever that is. It makes me sick. I don’t know anyone here and I don’t think I want to. I’m sweating, which is gross, but then again so are the synchronistic rows of people watching Biggest Loser, a lame Football Game, and some generic female detective show where the heroine wears high heels at crime scenes and wears hair extensions to get ahead in life. My mom likes those shows. I’d rather draw, paint or sketch to my punk rock vinyl’s in my room; alone. Not perspire on a machine checking my pulse and telling me I had a great workout when I walk away uninspired and desiring a cake donut with a French vanilla iced coffee. Eight sugars.

“…Katie? Katie!”, my trainer asks me as I perk up. “Do you want to take a break or did you want to continue to the next exercises?”

“I’m fine, let me get some water and we can do whatever’s next,” tilting my head to the side just waiting out the minutes left in my session. I walk to the water fountain that has a line of vertical testosterone mutants standing in front of it. I stand idly, hoping no one talks to me, or notices me for that matter. Although it’s hard to ignore a tiny redheaded girl with a couple of wrist tattoos in stupid tight yoga pants made by my nemesis Jillian Michaels. She’s such a druggie workout whore. Oh my God, someone just leered at me, and it was an ugly muscle head; great. Only 10 more minutes of these carnivorous looks and lame Top 40 hits and I’m out of here. Probably for good.

I sip some water, thankfully uninterrupted by muscle model de joir and walk back to my trainer. He’s holding a ball, which he hands to me. It’s not a real ball; it’s a heavy, unbounceable ball probably filled with my self-esteem and hopes. He’s about to teach me how to do some exercise that will strain my abs, but as he’s teaching, I hear my favorite song come on: the ever-comforting high pitched tone.