Masked

Entry Nine

Hey, future me. I remember when I ran out of that coffee shop, leaving my laptop satchel, coffee, and friend behind. I ran straight out into traffic, weaving around the cars like I was weaving around my feelings, dodging them as best as I could. The horns were blaring in my ears as I sprinted across the roads, my tears stinging my face in the cold autumn afternoon.

My feet didn't stop when I reached the other end of the road and met the pavement of the sidewalk. They didn't stop when I turned up the corner of the street and passed my bus stop. They didn't stop when they crashed over piles of fallen leaves, dropped food and wrappers, and they most definitely didn't stop when I heard my name being called from a block down at the outside of a little coffee shop on the corner of 4th avenue.

I felt horrible, I didn't know what to think. The only thing I knew was that I had to get away before he had to deal with me breaking down again. It was one thing to break down alone in a clock tower, another in a public place at midday. So, I did the only thing I could in that situation. I ran.

I ran all the way home that day and didn't even stop to say hello to Aunt Jayde. I slammed my bedroom door and knocked all my books off their shelves and yanked all my clothes out of their drawers and off their hangers. I rummaged around in my bedside cabinet for my pain medication and emptied the whole bottle into my right hand, grasping the little pills tightly in my fist. Then I collapsed onto my bed in a heap of sobs.

I hadn't killed my parents. I was happy. I had followed the rules of the road. I had deserved my license. I hadn't been in the wrong. I crumpled to the floor and curled up into a ball, the mess of clothes almost comforting as they surrounded my desperate breakdown.

I sat silently in my room for an hour in the dark, my arms shielding my head from any dangerous thoughts. I wanted to call Danielle, I wanted to scream in joy; "I DIDN'T KILL MY FAMILY!" But the blame shifting to someone else didn't bring them back. It didn't make it all better, it didn't remove the massive, ugly scar lying across my chest.

My scar. Gray had convinced me to remove my shirt and show him my scar. He knew it was there, he'd seen my naked emotions. He also knew who caused it. I was upset about that, although I shouldn't have been. Gray didn't kill my family, his dad did, and it wasn't intentional. I shouldn't have been mad. I sagged further into the floorboards, my tears running dry from dehydration, my eyes pink and puffy. I sat there sobbing, I couldn't do anything about it now, and I still had to face Gray.

Poor Gray, he had been standing in that coffee shop, paying for a meal and some coffees with tears running down his face, and a broken girl's things in his hands. He hadn't meant to open my scab or see my scar, but he did, and now he didn't know what to do. That was twice I hurt him, and I'd only known him for about three weeks. I was horrific for hurting those I'd loved, and I knew that Gray was no different. That was why I couldn't let anyone see me under my mask, that was why I had to push everyone away. I kept sobbing over my brokenness, sobbing over the deaths, sobbing over Gray, left alone in the coffee shop with my things.

Since I had left my things in the shop when I ran out on him, he'd opened my MacBook and went through my contacts, looking for Danielle. He'd found her pretty easily, and added her number. Gray had let her know where to meet him, pick up my things, and asked her for directions to my house and drove her there to comfort me. He didn't know that she hadn't seen my scar, he didn't know that he was the first.

He could have broken me that day, exposed me to the world. He could have screamed from the rooftops; "BROOKLYN CASSE IS BROKEN!" But he didn't. He called for help; he asked the one person that I trusted to help me. Thank God she did.

It was thirty minutes later when Danielle was banging on my door. She was scared, she didn't know what I'd done. She didn't know I was broken. She didn't know that I was hiding everything, all my feelings inside. She couldn't have known; I had become too good at the game. I didn't want to burden her, or any else, for that matter. I didn't want the burden of my family's missing lives, I hadn't killed them, so I was free to go. I didn't need to stay here anymore; I didn't need to keep my mask up. I hadn't wanted to kill myself that day, but the pills in my hand became too appealing to leave. The tears began flowing as I took the handful of pills, sinking back down to the ground, waiting for the silence to cover me, comforting like a blanket.

"BROOKLYN," She was crying, but I wasn't moving. I had swallowed the pills and the life was slowly draining from my body. I sunk deeper into the floor, my face blank and unmoving.

"BROOKLYN, PLEASE," She begged, her voice breaking in the middle. She thought I'd killed myself, that I was going to be bleeding out when she finally busted down the door. She didn't know how correct she was. I was bleeding out, all of my hatred and pain and regret was pooling around me on the cold, hard floor. She was also correct in thinking I was dying. I had died mentally that day when my family passed away, but at that moment, I was finally going to join them physically on my bedroom floor.

She hammered on the door, fiddling with the lock, her sobs filling the deafening silence of the house. She collapsed to the floor on the outside of the door, her back pressed against the solid wood firmly. The door shook with every rib-racking breath she sucked in.

"Please, Brookie, open the door," She whimpered. I wanted to get up, to unlock the door, to collapse into her arms and to tell her I'm okay, but that would be lying. I couldn't move anyway, my body was frozen to the spot, my blood as cold as ice. I could feel my eyes starting to close, but I was hoping to see Danielle one last time, hoping she'd break down the door and hold me so I could tell her I loved her, to thank her for everything.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway at a running pace, but it wasn't Danielle's, as the door was still shaking with her every breath. I was too tired to guess who it was and slowly closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep, but every bone in my body was fighting to keep me awake. They wanted me to stay, to sit there on the floor and wait for them to rescue me. I had my hands over my ears, fighting myself, preventing me from getting the help I needed but didn't deserve. I could only hear muffled voices and slow, steady banging on the wooden door through my hands and stayed there silently.

I was so incredibly hopeful that they'd get into my room, so fucking hopeful. I also hoped against hope that I wouldn't be dead by the time they got in. I was so emotionally tired that I was afraid that I was slipping off the edge, not being able to fight the medication for long enough to say goodbye. That would be it, I wouldn't feel anything anymore. They wouldn't have even a hint of Brooklyn left.

I remember closing my eyes and falling asleep to the white noise of crying and splintering wood, torn between hoping for life and hoping for death.