Her palm flies out, faster than her reflexes should allow. My head cracks to the side under the force of her slap. I don't know why I always expect her to be different, call it irrational hope. I fall to my knees, watch her sway dangerously from unbalancing herself. Unlike me, she stays on her feet though. Remarkable, given her high alcohol levels. Now that she's started it will be a while before she's stopped. Sure enough, she gazes down at me, her eyes bright and flashing with danger. She sends her slipper into my gut, pushing me down to the floor. I can she enjoys the power, it's lurking beneath the madness in her eyes. If I lie still, it will be over soon. She gives me a couple more kicks in my ribs and that's as far as it always goes. Nothing major, just a release of emotion for her. The same reason I cut. Her brown shrewd eyes that once danced with laughter glare down at me. The stink of alcohol on her breath soaks into me. "Pathetic." She growls and stumbles back to the lair of her couch.
Picking myself up, I shake off the aches and leave the room. At least I am safe in my bedroom. She doesn't like climbing the stairs, barely moving from her perch when she's home. I dump my schoolbag on my bed and grab my razor blade out of my pocket. With every cut I envisage life away from here, I gain a bit more control over the soaring anger that nobody sees. And when I'm done I wash the blood off my arm, clean my blade and bandage myself up. There's no longer any trace of what I did, like it never happened. Every part of my life is a ghost. Sometimes invisible, sometimes seen way too clearly. My cheek is red and throbbing but it won't even leave a bruise. That's the good thing about scars, they're permanent. Some reminder of a purpose when you have long forgotten, a sign that you fought for life.
Morning rolls around, the time of day in which horrible monstrosities are all too clearly exposed. I get dressed and eat an apple quickly, eager to leave, dreading my destination. I tiptoe past my mother's room, knowing she's ten sheets to the wind. For now. Her words from last night haunt me during my walk. Despite having them spat at me for years I still let them get to me. But only I know that, to everyone else I am the same as always. I know I can't replace my brother, can't give him back to her. I know I wasn't a suitable match for bone transplants and all that. I should have been able to save him, that's what older siblings do. He should be alive and doing what every other teenage boy does, because he was so alive. But I'm the child that survived, the one that everyone knew could never be great.
The loud chatter reaches me before I round the corner to the school. I wait for it and there is the all too familiar taunts, crueller than ever. "Hey, emo chick! Why don't you do us all a favour and kill yourself?" A boy yells, just one of many. Another faceless jeerer egged on by Brian. Ignoring them, I tug down my hood and walk past them. Insulting daggers are flung at my back, thunking into my concrete shield. As I walk by cliques of students I hear my name whispered over and over, "that's the freak that hit Brian, her name's Reegan or something." The jocks behind me poke me all the way through English... and find a way to get me in every other class. Honestly, what have I ever done to them?
A/N Sorry, I know this one was quite short. I hope the action was good though.
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The reason
Teen FictionReegan, a 16 year old girl is struggling to deal with a mother who turned abusive shortly after her younger brother, Ben, died from leukaemia. Her dad walked out on them and she never really knew her grandparents, let alone how to contact them. At s...
