It is raining, but too dark to see the water falling. She can hear it, though, hear it tap the roof and slide down the windows. The rain has always soothed her, and she wonders why that is, but can’t figure it out because it does not sooth her now.
She sits on the couch, knees pulled to chest, forehead to knees. The only light source is the tall lamp in the corner of the room, where her father normally sits and reads. But he doesn’t sit there tonight—he’s in the kitchen, with her mother. They’re fighting about something, voices a little too loud, a little too harsh. She can’t hear every word they’re saying, but she can hear enough.
They’re talking about her.
It’s your fault, the wind whispers, settling around her like a blanket. They’re fighting about you because it’s your fault.
She shifts uncomfortably. “No, it’s not,” she mumbles, staring at the ground. She swallows hard.
The wind chuckles. Of course, it is. All their problems are because of you. You’re a burden to them.
“That’s not true,” she whispers, her throat closing. Her face is getting warm, her eyes starting to prickle. When the wind laughs, she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head violently. “No!”
Her parents’ voices stop suddenly, but that only spikes her heartrate. A moment later, their voices start again, only much quieter. But it doesn’t matter, not anymore. She knows what they’re saying about her.
“She isn’t all right, Kathleen,” her father is saying, worry creating lines across his forehead. His already-peppered brown hair is greying more at the stress of convincing his wife and himself of what the right thing to do is. “She needs help.”
“What will that do to her, though?” her mother is hissing back. She’s not in disagreement about her child’s mental health: She isn’t okay, she knows that. But what would “getting her help” do to her? How would she react? “And the money, Tom! We don’t have the money to send her to a doctor!”
Her father is pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses in his other hand. “I know, I know,” he is murmuring, blinking back tears. “How do we help her, though, Kath? She can’t keep going on like this, and we can’t let her.”
You’re their burden, the wind bites, turning harsh suddenly.
She jumps to her feet, an actual blanket trailing behind her feet, and switches off the ceiling fan. She curls back up on the couch and hides beneath the blanket, attempting to choke back sobs. The tears still slip over her eyelids, she can’t help them. She’s a freak, a burden.
Upstairs, in her room, her silver Converse sit pushed into a corner, forgotten for the moment.
