Levels of Stress

Level Nine

Warning: Since it's getting to the higher two levels, the next two chapters will be pretty graphic and upsetting and triggering. It's not exactly how everything went down with me, I changed it to fit the plot better.
This isn't me writing my feelings out at the exact moment in time. I wrote this a while ago and need to get it out. Read respectively I guess...

The next day, when Skye had been long gone, I was alone. My dad had disappeared to work and the word "school" came across my mind. I quite obviously skipped yesterday and was already three hours late into today's classes.

Still, I willed myself out of bed and threw on a pair of jeans, a dark t-shirt, and a hat because I failed to do anything with my hair.

People noticed as soon as I stepped into the building that there was something wrong with me. I was a walking case of depression. Dragging my feet in the carpeted halls, I hung my head low and tried to ignore the stares coming in my direction.

None of my friends would look at me the same that day. Jennifer, Mona, Ally, Danielle, Skye, and even Belle stayed away from me. I couldn't bare to talk to them and probably scare them away with my feelings.

I felt awful for letting everyone pity me for reasons they didn't know, but I didn't want to tell anyone. I was stubborn. I didn't want anyone to know that I had a problem, but letting myself handle my problems made everything worse. The real thing I needed and never admitted was help.

The last few hours of school came and passed. I closed my locker and walked down to the boys locker room for football. The entire room went silent as soon as I stepped in. They knew something was really wrong with their front and didn't know how to say anything.

This was how my guy friends were, I thought as I pulled a new shirt over my head and laced up my spikes. They weren't sensitive like me. I expect that's a good thing. They weren't like my girl friends in the way that they didn't relate to me.

I read a stat online that said women are 75% more likely to have what I have, which meant I was pretty rare. They didn't know how to talk to me other than chatting on football or girls or sometimes even bands.

I dragged my sorry ass out on the field and started practice with the guys. It went along fine. I still had an achy feeling in my stomach from being sick and an even stranger one in my gut. It's like I knew what was about to happen before it did.

The small, black car that drove up to the field was one I knew far too well. A man stepped out of it and stormed up to the field, his hands balled up into a fist at his sides.

I suddenly felt too weak to stand and stopped dribbling the ball, letting my teammate steal it away. The man came up to my coach, shouting something I could barely hear. I could see tiny, dark circles start to cloud my vision and held myself before passing out.

The coach reluctantly motioned me over to the sideline and I slowly walked up. Coach looked apologetically at me, like he might know what my dad was like. It got me angry for a minute. He doesn't know, but at least he was trying.

My father grabbed my arm and literally pulled me out of practice. He tossed me into the back seat of the car, grumbling a string of curse words that didn't even make sense.

There were empty bottles of beer and vodka and anything that would make you drunk in the back of his car. I only assumed he was drunk. The car swerved a bit and I latched onto the bottom of the seat for safety. My body slouched, unable to see the windows. I already knew where I was going based on the turns he was taking.

I counted the turns away nervously. The right at the petrol station, the left by the department store, another left into the neighborhood, and then the long, narrow street leading to his house.