The Rift

Chapter 6

It's a distant noise. It's rather annoying, tugging at the back of my mind, begging me to pay closer attention to it. But I don't want to. In fact, I like ignoring it better than actually paying listening. But nobody seems to care about what I like.

It's my parent's voices.

School has ended, and its summer vacation. I'm home, sitting on the couch after the last day. After everybody else said goodbye to their friends, and I walked silently out the door, without a word to anyone. After I walked home, my backpack feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds, due to the mental weight of its cargo. Two simple pieces of paper, stapled together, and carefully slid into brown envelope. Sealed and labelled with my name, handed to the teachers, who gave it to me. One light little thing, that sparks such an eruption. It happens every year. I cross my fingers, sit on the couch as my parents pull it out, hoping that it won't be as bad as last year. But it always is.

This year, I think, it might have been a little worse, because of all of my previous infractions. I think my parents are just sick of me being a failure. I think they're sick of me in general. So when they pull out the two little pieces of paper, their faces are already set in two matching, disappointed frowns. I actually have something to be proud of this year, unlike other years before. Language arts have always been my best subject, but under the careful instruction of Mr. Robinson, I thrived. I got the highest mark on the exam out of our entire class. I've never smiled more than after he told me that. Unfortunately, with all my focus being put there, my exams in other subjects, well, weren't as successful. My mother, of course, seems to ignore my language arts mark, and is on my throat at once for math. My father stands back for a second, admiring my 95. Then he sees the rest. He doesn't speak, however, and I wish my mother would follow his example. As usual I'm stuck on the couch, as my mother screams insulting things at me. This is more hurtful then helpful, but she never really seems to care.

Her words blur into a mind-numbing mass, a long shrieking mumble that infests my eardrums. To be honest, I'm used to her yelling by now. Although I can't say that her words don't hurt, when they do so badly. They hurt me inside. Some days, I fell like I'm actually starting to believe her words. Feeling like I'll never accomplish anything, that I'm useless, stupid, a waste. Maybe she's right. I'm still not certain.

Then I think of my father, and I know he thinks I can accomplish something. I just wish he would say it to me. That might make me more hopeful. That little bit of praise might help me a thousand times more than my mother's hurtful words. But he always hangs back, unable or unwilling to speak. Sometimes of think he's afraid of my mother when she's yelling at me, afraid that she will snap back at him if he interrupts.

Eventually she ends her rant. Her breathing slows, her voice lowers, but her eyes remain full of fire. After one final disappointed glare towards me, and one quick glance to my father, she storms from the room. The door slams behind her, my report cars fluttering to the floor. I hear her distant footsteps, stomping up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her with a final bang. There is one moment of silence, and I expect my father to leave. My father, however, stays, like he wants to say, or do, more. He stares at me, his eyes boring into my face, and I hope, deep in my heart, that he understands me in a way my mother has not. We are so similar. Maybe he understands. I hope that he can read what's written there in my eyes and understand the words that I will not say. I hope he can look into my face, and see "I'm sorry" written there. And see how much I want to make him proud.

But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't.

Instead, his eyes turn hard, sad and cold, his mouth turned down in disappointment. When he speaks, his voice is barley a whisper.

"Do you try, Brooke?" I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. "Do you try to hurt your mother? Is this some kind of game? Fail and then see how she reacts? See how upset you can make her?" this time, I say nothing in response. I've lost the control to open my mouth; I'm too shocked by his words. He continues to speak.

"We try so hard for you, Brooke. And we love you. But it would be nice if it seemed like you loved us, too." And then he turned, and walked away. He makes next to no noise on his way out the door. I hear his quiet footsteps, and the faint sound of him entering my parent's room. I don't think he'll tell my mother what he said.

I sit there, alone and in shock. His last words ring in my eardrums. How could he think that? How could he, and my mother, think that badly of me? My heart feels hollow. M lungs feel like they can no longer function. My mind is filled with despair. My report car remains on the floor, taunting me. I begin to cry. Not normal, little tears, but a huge gushing stream, falling from my eyes to the floor. My parents do not come to the sound, like they did when I was little. They ignore me entirely. I hate them.

But not quite as much as I hate myself.

The summer goes on. Life goes on. The tension between me and my parents never really seems to go away. My mother always looks close to tears when I'm around. When I catch my father's eye, he looks away. So I begin to ignore them, purposely stay away from them, as to not cause myself pain. It hurts them, my absence, but I don't care. They must be used to me hurting them by now. I spend my time at the park, hiding behind bushes and watching other, happier children play. I wander through the streets, staying out late and not caring. My parent's barely talk to me anymore. And they haven't said anything about me leavening the house so early, and getting back so late. My punishment has been revoked, but not officially. They didn't tell me I could leave the house; they just stopped caring when i did. So I come and go as I please.

My father's final words were the beginning of my deterioration. They fill my mind, constantly coming back up in my thoughts. The first two weeks of the summer are dreadfully boring, and horribly painful. All I think about is how lonely I am. Until I find something new to pass my time. The only thing I look forward to anymore be my dreams. My incredible, jaw dropping dreams. I've stopped being scared; I've forgotten the terrifying dreams from the past and have begun to trust the dreams wholeheartedly. But while they bring a short relief period from the real world, they bring me no relief while in real life. I feel more and more lonely, hollower inside. More worthless. More stupid. I can't shake my parent's words from my head. My father's words consume me. I only can escape them in The Rift.

Then I find something to do. I can't say that it decreases those feelings, but I can say that it does feel good. Or did, at the time. Eventually, people notice, but not my parents, strangers on the street. Of course not my parents, why would they ever care?

I begin to make up stories, excuses to explain the scars on my wrists. But no matter how frail those excuses are, they are always believed by those I tell them to. No one is ever suspicious. I have no friends to take further notice, to ask me about them. My parents are so distant; sometimes it feels like they don't even see me anymore. But I can tell you, those cuts were no accident.

Neither are the ones that appear on my waist. There, they cannot be seen, and I'm free to cut deeper. The story is the same on my abdomen, and on my upper things. I find that people are less likely to see the cuts on my ankles than my wrists, so I begin to cut there. I learn. I get better, sneakier. I push the boundaries further.

Months pass. The scars never really seem to go away.

END OF PART ONE.....