Barely Breathing

Chapter 3

The word sinks into my skin, My fingers trace it over and over again. Torn. I'm torn between life and death, breath and frost. The truth is I was still alive, but barely breathing, I was just praying for a miracle, I was praying to someone I didn't fully believe in. 

Mom calls goodnight downstairs, her sing song voice giving me chills,. How one could be so happy in life surprised me, I lay on my right side, The cuts are still to fresh to apply much pressure and just my pant line pressing makes me wince, I'd have to change the bandage in the morning since I could already feel the crimson blood leaking out of the wound, the pain symbolizing I was finally in control of my own life and pain. The bad blood leaks out and the good blood stays in me, trying its best to make me okay again. 

I dream I was swimming, the water blood red and the sand the color of my skin. My body was torn and my own blood adding to the crimson river. I was drowning. 

I wake up in a cold sweat, my stomach no longer growls in hunger, as it believes I'm in a time when I can't get food easily, so it adjusts itself to the living conditions in order for me to stay alive. 

I grab a water and head back to my room. I pop Harry Potter into the DVD player and laid down. I don't drink anything but water and I don't eat much. Hedwig's theme starts to play and I can finally relax, let's just say; I'm a HUGE potterhead and I wasn't afraid to admit it. 

My water spills all over me and my laptop. I mumble a few choice words and get up. The water lays spilled on the bed, just like me. I lay spilled of my dignity, pride, my life. It has all gone in different directions, like the branches of a tree. When I was younger and stronger I would climb trees all day any day. I would sit in a little nook of the tree and read my heart out. I can't stand to look at a book these days, most of them are happy romances, with normal people. I'm not normal, nor will I ever be close to it to be honest. I like me the way I am, my mind looks at the little things in the world and makes it philosphy. I can turn a tree and it's branches into how no one in this world is perfect, just like the branches of a tree we have knots, we have turns, nothing's complety symetrical. 

The water soaks into my bed sheets. I should get a paper towel to soak it up. Towels are upstairs. I am down. I have to put energy into getting up the stairs then more into getting down and laying the towels on my bed. Let alone getting up. 

I make my way up the stairs. One at a time, two feet on one step. It's like a baby going down the stairs. they put both feet onto the step and do the same to the next, they're scared of going to fast, I'm scared of falling with  my weak knees. 

My hands tremble as I grab the napkins. I concentrate hard about the shaking to stop, what if mom could see me right now? What would she do? Think I'm sick? Check my temperature? Or worse.. my weight? 

I hurry down the dark shallow stairs. I stumble a little at the bottom and regain my balance. By the time I got all the water soaked up and the paper towels thrown away I laid down in bed and checked my laptop. It got some water in the keys and that seemed to be the only damage. My 'G' key now stuck every time I pushed it down even though the liquid spilled contained no acid. 

I pull up my blog. I check my stats and make a new entry, my blog was my journal, and I actually had people follow and interact with me, it felt good but also weird, if you catch the vibe I'm sending. 

I press the 'G' key. It sticks. I take my long pointer finger nail and pluck it back up to where it's supposed to be. I shut my laptop and look around my room. There's nothing to do. The pink shines in the sunlight that peaks through my shutters. I pull out my notepad and begin to sketch a key. It's a elegant old fashioned key, or it's supposed to be. By the time I'm done it looks like it was ran over, mauled by a bear, and then put through a shredder. It was that bad. 

I crumble up the paper and toss it to the floor to join the others. I can't draw. I want to be able to, but I can't. The papers line my floor as if it were the carpet. I don't mind. The way my room is designed looks like a 4 year olds room. Which it is. I last decorated when I was about that age. The girraffe print wall was still pretty cool in my 15 year old eyes, but the princess wall decals had to go. I get up, slow and steady wins the race, slow and steady. The wall decals peel right off, I get my art paints and use the blank white wall as a huge art pad. Little doodles here and there, quotes, anything went onto that wall. 

Well, except for my feelings, they were hidden in what I drew. The key I drew symbolized my secret and how I planned to keep it under lock and key. In each quote I wrote I capitilizied one letter, when looking at the wall if you read the capitilzed letters from right to left you would see the words 'Outcast Looking In.'

I was the outcast looking in, I wasn't so far outcasted that I didn't want to show up to things. I was the one who became the people observer, I watched everyone around me do what they do in their normal lives, I can tell if someone is guilty by the look on their face, most of the time I can see what's wrong with someone, who they like, I can read them like a open book, unless they are like me, and know how to fake it. 

By the time my wall is completely finished it's midnight. I spent 3 unknowing hours on the wall, time flies huh?