The rest of the drive home is rather uneventful and once we arrive home, Kris gives me some much needed space. I walk down the hall into my room, shut the door and engage the lock with a quiet click. I throw the notebook onto my bed with as much force as I can muster. Sliding down the door to the floor, I finally take a moment to breathe and collect myself.
The painted-over paneling of my room was covered in various posters of bands I'd discovered since leaving home, video game and movie posters. My twin bed had no frame and was shoved up against a corner to my right with blankets and plushies haphazardly thrown on it, to my left thrift store dresser threatened to spill it's contents from one broken drawer.
My room was my sanctuary.
It wasn't much to look at; previously a nursery to the people that lived here before Kris and her brothers, but to me it was the only place I've really felt truly at home. There was no screaming matches, no bible classes and nobody breathing down my neck.
I finally regain the strength to stand and walk over to my dresser. After a brief struggle, I manage to wrestle out a pair of wrinkled sweatpants and a thin sweater. As much as I'd like to, the thought of showering is a feat I have none of the willpower to do. Changing clothes will have to do for now. I take down my ponytail, strip out of my clothes and stare at myself in the mirror atop my dresser.
My normally vibrant auburn hair is dingy and hangs limply around my shoulders to tickle the puckered scars on my upper arms. The 'baby fat' I never quite grew out of in high school mocks me and makes me turn away as I pull the sweater over my head. The haphazard bandage on my thigh complains and catches on the soft fabric when I force my legs into my pants.
Once I'm dressed, I drag a brush through my knotted hair before throwing it back up in a ponytail and throwing some new deodorant on. I sit down on my bed and flop backwards, staring at the water-stained ceiling. It's been a helluva day, but even through my depression, I do feel slightly better then this morning. There may be some credit to my bitchy therapists' questionable ways after all.
Hell, even a broken clock is right twice a day.
In the silence, my stomach growls comically loud. I don't even feel hungry, but I know I will be shaky and feel sick if I don't eat something soon. I had just gotten comfortable too. With a deep sigh, I pick myself up of the bed and drag myself out of my room and into the kitchen.
Kris is at the table, eating a sandwich while her older brother, Matt, is flipping through some random catalog that came in the mail. I open the refrigerator and stare hopelessly at it's rather bleak contents. Yikes, we need to go grocery shopping. I go to the cabinet and pull out a packet of ramen and put the water on the stove. Kris turns on a barstool to look at me, still concerned from earlier.
"Luna, about earlier..."
Fuck, this again.
"I know Dr. Morgan was being difficult, but I think she'll be good for you." Kris' expression looks tight, uncomfortable. She's playing with fire and she knows it.
"Difficult is a little bit of an understatement, Kris.. I think she has a point about the journal-notebook-bullshit, but beyond that I think she's a quack and full of shit." I can feel my heart starting to race again just thinking about Dr. Morgan and her judgmental stare. I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, Kris' family has been generously paying the copay for my therapy, even though they really can't afford it.
Matt, unhelpful as usual, joins the conversation. "I think you need to suck it up and deal with it, Princess. I get she didn't tell you what you wanted to hear, but sometimes you gotta pull yourself up by the bootstraps and get on with your life. We didn't exactly grow up in the best situation, but you don't see us cutting ourselves and being all emo."
Uh oh. Kris turns her patented death glare on and stares at her older brother with fire in her chocolate eyes. Her ginger ringlets always look like they are defying gravity and today is no different, bouncing around with her wild hand motions as she shouts at Matt.
"Matthew! That is not appropriate!! Just because YOU didn't go to therapy to work through your fucked up issues doesn't mean you need to pick on her!"
They bicker back and forth for a while, I keep myself quiet and stare at my pot of water, praying the water boils soon so I can slink back to my room and eat in peace. I stare into the water and can't help but think their lives would be a lot easier if I weren't here. Matt is right, to an extent. They grew up poor with an absentee father and an alcoholic, abusive mother and yet they are all mostly okay.
I am jarred out of my self-loathing thoughts by Matt screaming at Kris. "All she does around here is mope, eat our food and use our electricity! All I'm saying is she needs to fix her shit, get a job or some college or something and start contributing to this household!"
Ouch. It's not like I didn't know all that, but it doesn't make his words sting any less. Kris splutters and looks at me as if I'm made of glass, about to shatter at any moment. She runs off to her room on the other end of the singlewide and slams the door so hard one of their old family pictures falls off the wall with a crash.
Thankfully, the water is at a roiling boil and I drop my noodles in. Matt stares at me for a moment before walking off to sit in the living room. I am able to cook my ramen without any further issue, pouring it in a bowl and scurrying off to my room before I stoke his ire again.
I'm really not hungry, but I'd hate to waste their food, so I force it down anyways while gloomily staring at my phone, sitting on my bed.
Matt has texted me a few links to the local college and a job seeking website. It isn't until I see a droplet on my phone do I realize I'm crying. Fuck him... fuck this stupid therapist, fuck this stupid ramen... The crying escalates from soft sobs to long wails into my pillow. Sitting up, I struggle to pull my sweatpants down. My hands are trembling as I reach between my bed and the wall, slip my hand under my fitted sheet and retrieve the little boxcutter I have hidden in the folds of the mattress. I tear the bandage off my leg where itchy, not-yet-healed scabs stare back at me. I rip into my upper thigh repeatedly and whimper as sweet relief hits me. It hurts like hell but I feel like I can breathe again.
Almost instantly, the blood and my regrets spring to the surface. I promised her I wouldn't do this again.. but damn it I need this. I reach to slice into my leg again but I'm stopped by footsteps that scare me back into complacency. Nervous at being caught, I wipe my blade and tuck it back into it's hiding place and start cleaning up. I bandage my thigh and pull my sweatpants back up. I hide the evidence of my breakdown in the bottom of my trashcan and settle back down in bed.
Every throb of my thigh makes me feel worse about what I've done. I imagine Kris' disappointment and I can't even enjoy the rush. She'll notice eventually, she always does, but hopefully the wound will be healed enough for me to avoid a scolding.
I turn to the end of my bed and pull my laptop towards me. I open it and a lockscreen of me and Kris as young children greets me. I give our naïve faces a watery smile and pull up my browser to search for jobs and look up the college's financial aid program.
I scroll past countless jobs I'm unqualified for, looking for something entry level. I have no experience, no prospects and no qualifications beyond a GED and the ability to recite entire passages of the Holy Bible. Finally I stumble upon the occasional fast food and convenience store openings and try my hand at applying with my paltry resume.
I am met with a barrage of bizarre questionnaires, with questions ranging from if I'm a 'team player' or a 'lone wolf' to my zodiac sign and favorite color. I try to answer to the best of my ability but the questions don't seem to have a 'right' answer. I put my headphones on and listen to music while busting out different job applications until I feel as if my brain will turn to mush.
I shut my laptop after a few hours of job hunting and turn on the tv for some background noise. The slashes on my thigh have stopped throbbing painfully and now only alert me to their presence when I shift my leg. I lay down and pull the blankets and a few of my favorite plushies around me and settle in. It's only just now starting to get dark, but doing anything else at this point seems pointless. Rather then let my mind run wild with dark thoughts, I cuddle up to my favorite wolf plushie and try to go to sleep.
186Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxYw86M7Ssa
