Safe (Rewritten)

Scars

"And my scars remind me, 

That the past is real." 

- Papa Roach, 

Scars

I have a paper to write after school, and I need to go to the library. I text my parents this, so they know I'll need a ride afterwords. I really don't need anymore last minute hurrying and adrenaline today.

The librarian keeps shooting me looks, giving me these little glares. Yes, because I'm a trouble maker. Naughty Paige, looking at the spines of so many books. I don't know how I live with myself.

We've gotten a routine between us since I chose this as the place to escape to. She allows me to sit in the corner for hours on end, sometimes just staring at the wall, and I in turn will lock up after I was done, or stock books when she needed it. I wouldn't admit it to anyone, but I appreciated her and how she didn't try to press answers out of me.

After I've gathered my books, I head to the teen fiction, because . . . I don't know why. I've just always liked that corner of the library. It's kind of always felt like a safe haven, being surrounded by all the hope of young love and possibilities.

Sometime while I'm writing my rough draft, my mind slips away and I end up writing something completely different on another piece of paper. Once I've realized I'm done, I look down in shock.

Dear Eric,

You've been gone for the past two years, and that's nice. Not that you were gone. Nice that you didn't have to be around through my shit storm.

Things hit the fan two years ago, right after you guys left. It was by Grover Woods. Highway 17. Something happened, and no body knows what. I mean, I do. And so does the other person. I think my parents might suspect, and maybe my therapist.

I think they worry about me. I would worry, but I know I don't matter. All of my therapists say I'm depressed. They even give me pills now. I felt almost better today, when I saw you. But why would that matter?

How are you? And how about Ally? I haven't seen her today. She was here, right?

I must be bugging you. I mean, I'm just a girl your sister was friends with. It's not like* we're *friends. We never really were, were we? Though I did kind of want to know you better before you left.

-Paige

P. S. I lied about the bruise two years ago. I didn't fall.

Wow. Just. Wow.

I have walls, you see, walls that stand high and thick around me. No one can break through them, not even cracks. I've read about people like me in books, how that one person easily broke their tough exterior.

What if I were to break the walls from the inside?

I'd be the holy grail for therapists and the goal they'd set for their own depressants.

The thought makes me snort, and the librarian raises her brows at me. I merely pretend to zip my lips, lock it, and toss the key over my shoulder. She shakes her head and goes back to shelving.

After a while, I just can't concentrate on a paper. Seeing as I still have an hour before my parents are supposed to show, I might as well dispose of the letter. To add to my feeling like a serial killer, I might as well dump it in the Everett River.

The walk to the river takes about five minutes, because almost everything in this town is within walking distance. I don't know why it's like that, considering we lead right into Seattle. You'd think that would lead to business and marketing, but nope. We did get tourists, though they were either the runoff from Seattle or people who got lost.