Chapter One

I tip back the Starbucks cup.  My stomach feels as if it will burst, but hopefully it will keep me awake.  Hopefully it will keep the dreams away.  I push the play button and music drifts to my ears.  This music isn’t exactly sad, but the lyrics smash my glass heart.  I loosen my piano belt a bit.  I don’t play the piano, but I still like the pattern of the keys. 

My room welcomes me with a lazy sigh.  I need to clean up, but I’m not in the mood right now.  It seems like I’m never in the mood for anything but I don’t really care.  I do care that my little sister is staying at my big sister’s house again.  My older sister, Chelsea, isn’t the greatest of people.  She cares about me and I care about her, but she’s not very responsible.  Chelsea just got mixed up with the wrong people in high school.  It isn’t her fault.

I love my sisters.

I used to sing.  Now my voice sounds like the shards of my glass heart.  I don’t want to sing anymore.  I used to draw and write, too.  I’ve also given up on those.  Books lay scattered on my floor.  I used to read, but now I just don’t have the time.  In the cabinet downstairs, eight different flavors of tea lie untouched.  I used to drink tea every single night, usually two or three cups.

I used to do everything.  I could never dance, though.  I’m too clumsy to walk through doorways.  Two out of three times, I end up smashing my face into the wall.  I guess that’s an exaggeration, but I really do run into things a lot.  I also trip over everything, even when nothing is there.  One thing I find no trouble in tripping over or stepping on is my cat.  She’s always in my way so I’m pretty sure I’ve learned to subconsciously watch for her.

I love my cats.

I love my sisters.

Mom yells at me to come down stairs.  I just got up here; my clock is just extremely fast.  I shout back the question.  Why?  Usually, this results in an angry “because I said so.”  This time she just answers “BECAUSE!”  I’m okay with that.  When isn’t she yelling?  I hurry down the stairs.  I don’t want her to get Dad yelling, too.

I don’t love my parents.

I love my cats.

I love my sisters.

After a painful dinner, I head back up the stairs.  I turn on my music.  I pull my door closed.  I kiss the drawing on my wall.  I pull back my bed covers.  I crawl under them.  I hide.

I don’t love myself.

I don’t love my parents.

I love my cats.

I love my sisters.

Thoughts of the past month flood my mind, overexcited to have free time.  I know I’ll overthink everything.  I know I shouldn’t allow thinking.  I know I don’t care.  I’ll just ask the razor for help later.  I don’t know if I love my razor.

I lie in bed and think of him.  I think and think and try to stop myself, but result in thinking about him more.  He’s all I’ve thought about for maybe the past year.  It’s just another habit I’ll have to break.  My phone is in my hands, a message already sent.  I shouldn’t text him either.  He has a girlfriend, a better one.  He said so himself.  He was always too busy for me, starting two weeks before we broke up (two weeks before my reason for living left me).  I’m not suicidal.  I only thought about it.  Death is just interesting to me.

I sneeze once, in time with the music.  Rhythm still comes easy to me, and so does spelling and grammar.  I just wish those meant something.  I used to have friends.  They meant something.  They actually meant a lot of things.  Now I have my cats, though.  They’ll never betray me (unlike my suicidal dog).  They’ll always listen and purr in response.  They love me, just like I love them.

I really hope some bad guy isn’t reading this.  Now he’ll know my weaknesses.  He’ll take away my sisters and cats unless I tell him where our magical treasure map is hidden.  He’ll hold his hook up to my neck and speak harsh words about violent actions to be taken against my kitties and sissies.  I’ll tell him it’s in the safe in the basement, but he doesn’t know there’s a pack of wolves protecting it.  Then he’ll go down with all his bad guy friends and--

I snap back to the present.  Bad guys aren’t mean to little girls.  They also don’t go around searching for treasure and treasure maps.  Robbing banks is much simpler and less time consuming.

I’ll still try not to reveal any more of my weaknesses.

I bury my face in my pillows, waiting to remember.  I bury my face in my pillows, waiting for him to break me again.  I bury my face in my pillows, waiting for tears to pour down my face and sobs to shake through me.  When will he visit me?  When will he bring my misery?  When will he say I can’t talk to him?  When will he remind me that he’s with her?  When will he remind me that I’m alone?

I start to think that maybe he’s given up on torturing me.  That’s when the memories flood through my helpless brain.  I try to stop the tears, to put on my poker face.  It doesn’t work.  I’m crying and all I can do is try to keep the volume down.  I sob into my pillow, my blanket, my shirt, and then my pillow again.  This can go on for hours but tonight it only lasts one.  The sobs reduce to hiccups.  I haven’t brought any attention to myself.  Exhausted, I bury my face into my tear-stained sheets and fall asleep instantly.

I don't (I really do) love him.

I don’t love myself.

I don’t love my parents.

I love my cats.

I love my sisters.