Break

Chapter Two

His hands run through my hair and pull my face closer to his. Our lips brush against each other. The kiss is gentle at first, but it quickly becomes more heated. His tongue feels right at home in my mouth. He sits down on the edge of his bed, pulling me onto his lap. His fingers play with the bottom of my shirt.

I wake up, heart racing. I'm so happy, I feel I could fly. Then, reality slaps me in the face. That wasn't real. It was all just a dream. He is no longer mine, and that never happened. 

My alarm clock reads "2:00 A.M." in bright, searing red. The dream shook me up and there is no hope of going back to sleep. I tip-toe down my hallway to my kitchen.

I fill my tea kettle with water and turn the stove to high. I am an avid tea drinker and have a large selection of hot teas to choose from. I choose peppermint, in hopes that it will relax me enough to fall back into my slumber. I place a tea bag into my favorite mug. It says "Claire" in whimsical, swirly pink cursive. My mom made it three years ago for my fourteenth birthday. It never fails to bring back happy memories. Even now, in my despair, it grants me flashes of cold winter days, made warm by tea and hot chocolate.

Steam begins to rise from the spout of the kettle and I take it off the burner quickly to keep the loud singing from waking my mom. I pour the hot liquid into my mug and watch as the golden-brown color of the tea diffuses through the water. I sneak back towards my room and sit cross-legged in the center of my bed. I hold the mug with both of my hands and allow the warmth to spread through my body. The steam billows towards my face, dousing me with the warm scent of peppermint. I take a sip of the tea and try to clear my mind. Just then, I realize that I am crying.

The drops fall slowly from my face and land on my hands. I am too far gone for even the tea to calm me. I take my time in finishing the tea; I have no reason to hurry. Once every last bit of the golden liquid has disappeared from the bottom of the mug, I stand and walk into my bathroom.

Showers are the best place to cry. No one can see you.

I sit with my knees pulled to my chest, the steamy water mixing with my tears. I sit under the running water until the steam disappears and I am being pelted with icy blasts.

I shiver as I step out, the cool air hitting my dripping skin. My long, blond hair sticks to my chest and back, leaving trails of water as the strands sit heavily against my body. They feel burdensome, as if they no longer belong to me.

The tears have stopped and I stare into the mirror at my worn-out face. My eyes are puffy and red. My reflection no longer looks like me. Something is not right. I have the urge to change myself, to look like or even become an entirely different person.

I run into my room, grab my bright blue pair of scissors, and take them back into the bathroom. I watch as my beloved hair falls to the floor, a little piece of him slipping away with every snip of the blades. It leaves my hair in a ragged, almost boyish pixie cut. It's nowhere close to perfect, but it is new. It is satisfying.

I begin to hunt through my cabinets until my hands grab hold of a bottle of fuchsia Manic Panic. I used it to dye my tips over the summer, but I still have about half of the bottle left. I grab a pair of latex gloves from the box under my sink and tug them on. I don't even bother to use a mixing bowl or brush; I just squirt the dye into my hands and rub it through my hair. Once my hair is covered in the dye, I rip off my gloves. I grip the counter firmly and glare into the mirror as I give the dye time to set.

I don't feel like getting back in the shower, so I just rinse the excess pink goop out into the sink. I wrap a towel over my hair and crawl back into the warm embrace of my bed. I have two hours left before I need to wake up for school. I finally manage to sleep.