Fire On Diamonds

Prologue

"Oh. You're going out," I deadpan.

He has that same look again. The one he gives me before he leaves me stranded alone for a few days... or maybe weeks. The last time he did this, the neighbours had to knock down the door to get to me in time. They nearly took me to a hospital, and that had jarred me out of my mind long enough to protest. 

I hate hospitals. That's where she was, before she left me, too. 

He stares at me as if he thinks I'll try to stop him this time. When it dawns on him that I won't, he grinds his teeth and creeps out of my room, closing the door quietly before locking it. He can't resist the urge to slam the front door shut, though.

I sometimes wonder why I'm still under his care. Or why he isn't in an asylum of some kind yet. He sure as hell deserves it. Maybe it can put some sense into his stupid head to finally grasp that my mother is dead.

My stomach rumbles, warning me that I haven't had food since yesterday. I ignore it as I get off my couch and languidly walk through the mess on the floor. I reach for the dust covered sheet and slowly slide it down the cheval mirror, feeling each groove of the intricate frame underneath. When it hits the floor, I'm too scared to look up at myself. Seconds feel like hours and I don't realise my eyes pour out unwanted liquid until I taste it. Then I give up, grab the sheet, and toss it over the cursed mirror.

"I hate everything. I hate everything. I hate everything," I repeat in mantra while turning away from the ugly abomination. 

My stomach growls again, and I punch it in response. I'm so tired of everything. Specifically my deranged father. Who in their right mind leaves their daughter locked in a damn room with no food, clean clothes, or electricity? Nobody in their right mind!

This is so frigging stupid. 

I suck in a sharp breath and slap my forehead, simultaneously going to grab at the dark roots on my head. When I turn back around, I knock the mirror down with my right elbow. I hear the crack, but when I look, there is no split in the glass. I rub the sore spot on my arm before moving over to my couch again. I'm weak to the point where I couldn't even break a damn mirror. The lack of food probably has to do with that. Or I'd like to believe so, anyway.

I'm glad that I at least have an abundance of water bottles. If I didn't, I might as well be dead by now. That sometimes does, sort of, sound more appealing than living like this, though.

I sigh while staring at the almost dark room. It's partially lit by the slivers in the ripped, flocked curtains. I've always been too scared to draw them back.

Looking around me, I mentally searching through the room. The matchsticks box is right beside the candle I had lit last night. I pull one out and rub it vigorously against the side of the box, igniting a little flame. Gawking at the flame, I picture the fascination etched onto my face. I must look like I'm about to set fire to this place. I laugh. I laugh so hard that tears lash down my face.

Oh, this is crazy. 

The candle flame dances in front of me, reminding me that I don't know where the match in my hand went. I'm too tired to look for it, and I don't care enough, either.

I lie down on my back and cover myself with the bed sheets. Turning around, I face the couch and wait for the darkness to consume me. My wish is granted once I forcefully close my eyes. The tears I had in them glue them shut whilst the faint smell of smoke plays my best friend, trying its damnedest to lull me to sleep.