The reason

Chapter 2

I didn't know what, but something was different. Maybe it was their glassy eyes or the zombie-like walk, or maybe it was just a sense I got, but they had changed. I followed them into the car and we drove back to the house, the whole while they didn't speak to me. I thought they were still upset, sad from the funeral. So I was a good girl and I didn't make a nuisance of myself for a whole day, which is a long time to a child. The next day I asked to go to the park and Mum turned away. Dad just said, "No." They switched back off and barely remembered to make me dinner. For months it was a monotonous cycle, me keeping to myself, the only attention I got was a plate of roughly thrown together dinner. Then one day Dad was just gone and all Mum said was "He isn't coming back."

Throughout the next six years she's sunk deeper and deeper into her depression. Some days she's drunk, sometimes she's popping pills and sometimes she's catatonic. I've learnt how to survive, how to cook and clean. I can look after myself. She still goes to work, her day job at the office, and some nights she doesn't even come home. All she does is work and drink. I handle the shopping, she gives me her credit card and I get what we need. Maybe she appears normal, but something broke inside her when my brother died. Something that can't be fixed.

I used to have friends when I was four or five. People to make play dough with or whatever it was we did. I don't anymore. The whole town sees just how dysfunctional my family is. Some days I wonder if there's a neon sign pointing my way "Weird family. Laugh and point." Because even someone from out of town would immediately notice where I stand on the pecking order. Below zero. Every day the kids yell out abuse, things like "Hey emo, is the pill popper still alive?" They steal my books and knock me into lockers. I don't encourage or resist them. I learnt to deal with it five years ago after I realised it wouldn't stop. After I realised not even my own mother would come and save me.

When I get up in the morning I look at my brown eyes, dark brown hair and average build. I notice the bruising under my eyes that I cover with eye liner. See the scars lacing the soft skin of my left arm. The results of days of hopelessness, abuse and coping. Then I re- wrap the bandage from the night before, wear a light long sleeved top and chuck on a hoodie. Add a skirt, ripped tights and black combat boots and I'm ready for another battle at school. Every day I ask myself "Why?" The answer is simple - "to survive." Pass my grades, get a job, get out of here, that's my plan. Two more years and school will be over and I will be free to leave. To make something of myself that isn't tainted. A fresh start. Go somewhere where I am anonymous and I can be myself. Where all my secrets and scars will stay hidden. But every minute is hard. I'm sick of fending for myself, sick of the abuse, sick of everything. Which leads me to my second option. The oh so terrible sin of claiming one's own life. It sounds horrible, I know, but it's still a very real option. I can't guarantee I'll live to graduation. There are no guarantees in life.