This Isn't Me.

Yes, but why?

"No, they do! Why don't you understand Layla?"

"How can they not believe me then? If they did love me, like you say they do, then they would believe me!"

"It's just hard for them," my brother smiled sympathetically, "seeing you go from winning all the races to..." He trailed off, glancing towards my double bed with a crumpled lilac satin covered quilt where I now seemed to be spending most of my time.

"To what? To what!?" I ask, "a lazy brat of a daughter who can't be bothered to go to school?"

"No, well..."

"Yes." I finished for him. He's the only one who seems to understand, seems to care but still he insists on sticking up for all of those who don't. "I give up. If you want to believe they care, that they think waking me up at 6am and forcing me into school when I can barely stand is in my best interest then okay, you go on believing that. Just know that I don't. That I'll never believe it."

"They just want you to do well, sis." Alex came over to the small lilac two seater sofa and sat down next to me. "I want you to do well too... I just have a different way of showing it, I suppose."

"I know what you mean Alex, but..." They clearly don't understand me... They have no idea... Why are they not more supportive? "I just don't feel the same way." I finished simply.

"Okay," he sighed, put his arm around me and smiled, "maybe one day things will be different." Alex- ever the optimist.

"Yeah, maybe." I humoured him.

"I've gotta get my revision done, just call if you need anything, okay?" He got up to leave.

Trying to raise my brother's usually high spirits I smiled, "I can't believe it, this time next month we'll be going to town together in your new car!" If I have enough energy to get out of bed...

"I look forward to it! But we won't be going anywhere if I fail my theory! See you in a bit!" He gave me a little wave and headed down the hall to his room.

I sat on the sofa. Thinking. I looked around my room, the room that I seemed to be spending most of my time in now days. Most teenagers do, I suppose, but not like me, not like this. . .

As my eyes swept over everything, I took in the bed I never bothered to make anymore- why waste all your energy on making a bed just to be forced to lay back down for a rest the second you've finished? Then the old wooden lilac-painted wardrobe beside the white, square bookcase and a vintage dressing table painted to match the wardrobe. I had used that table as a desk to do my homework at. . . When I HAD homework. . . When I could do any work at all. . .

With great effort, I placed my hand on the arm of the sofa. Trying to push myself up. Of course the first attempt was the failure, as always. I closed my eyes, trying not to shout out in frustration. I wanted, needed, to get up! Why!? Why couldn't I move? My parents ask me why I'm doing this to them? I ask why is my body doing this to me!? Sometimes, most of the time, it just makes me want to cry. If I can't even get up off a couch then how can I go to school, learn, get a good education and then a great job? Or any job! Will I find a way? No. I don't think there is a way.

Then the strangest thing happened. Strangest and scariest. My whole body, most of it, jolted. Like someone had just come up behind me and given me a fright... Or maybe an electric shock. I don't know why it happened, it just did.

Whatever it was, it appeared to have made some cracks in the concrete that had set over my limbs, meaning I had regained some movement. I rose gradually and made my way over to the door, leaning one hand on the wall, letting it take a large portion of my weight.

"You okay?" Alex called from his room where I knew he'd be seated at his red glass topped desk, probably strewn with papers, studying for his theory test.

"Ye-" I faltered, so many tiny lies to Sherlock this morning, I didn't want to tell another to the nicest person in my life right now, even just a little one like saying I'm okay when clearly I'm not "A little wobbly but I'll use Gran's handles!" I gave a little shakey laugh. 'Gran's handles' as we called them had come in 'handy' (pun intended, you've got to find something to laugh about when you're in a situation like mine, right?) for me recently. The small metal handles nailed to most of the walls at regular intervals were sometimes the only things keeping me upright. . . Funny how I'm only fourteen but am already relying on things that had been put in place for a lady in her late seventies.

I reached the shower room eventually. A box room, half of it slightly raised with a small plug hole in one corner and a white plastic seat attached to the wall for nan to sit on when she came over to stay as she did regularly. There were two handles on the walls in here, a lot like the ones you see in disabled toilets. I folded the seat down, turned on the water and sat, wishing the water could just wash away the events of the past two years.