The Darkness Inside

Prologue

A quick author's note: I'll change the cover soon.

"Mom?" I ask when I hear my old broken-down door creaks open. I receive no answer, save muffled sobs. I stand up and push my chair back into the kitchen table.

"Mom?" I say again, this time elevating my voice a bit.

As soon as I've said this, a woman totters into the room, blowing her nose on a checkered handkerchief decorated with roses. Her sea-green eyes are wild and feral, and her cinnamon brown hair is matted and tangled as if a beaver had made its nest in it. But beneath all of the disheveled hair and tears, I can still vaguely see the woman is my mother, although she is barely recognizable. She was obviously crying even before she came in. Her makeup is running down her cheeks like an endless stream, dribbling onto her snot-stained dress. It's strange, because she almost never cries. She's always the one telling my brother and I to stay strong; no matter what happens. She lifts her head from the handkerchief and finally seems to notice me standing there in silence, watching her. I take a small and cautious step back, dreading what she will say next.

"Oh, Morgan. M-m-my beautiful baby girl." is the first thing that comes out of her mouth, as she hastily tries to straighten her hair and wipe away the tears, although it doesn't help much; she's still a frantic mess, and seems to be having some trouble speaking.

I hesitate for a moment, trying to build up the courage to ask what has happened. It had to have been really bad for her to be acting the way she is. I take a deep breath and muster the strength to say, "what happened? Why are you crying?"

"Your brother, he- he's-"

"He's what?"

Her crying returns in full force, and I finally rush over to help her. I grab the handkerchief she came in with off the kitchen counter where she laid it and attempt to wipe away the tears.

"Shhhh, it's okay," I assure her. "What happened to Joramel?"

"The police-they-they told me there was a gang shootout. J-Joramel was coming home from school, and-" she stops, and my mind finishes for her.

How could this be? Joramel, dead? My heart knows those two words don't belong in the same sentence together. Fat, silent tears begin to roll down my cheeks and drip onto my favorite shirt.

My mind is telling me that it's true, but my heart won't accept it. He can't be dead. He's always been there for me: when our house was robbed, instead of cowering in the corner crying like me, he helped rebuild; when the other girls at school teased me and called me emo, he was there to talk to me; when I was expelled from school for trying to let the class hamster loose, he was there to speak with the principal about it. After all that, there's no way that he can be gone. I can't imagine him not being there when I come home from school, reading one of his fantasy books, looking at me with those deep, blue eyes and knowing that something isn't right. Being there to understand my pain; to reassure me that I am loved and that he'll always be there for me. Joramel, my brother, my confidant, my only real friend in this cold, cold world (or so it seems). He can't simply be gone in the blink of an eye; Erased from my life forever. My tears are coming down like a shower now, and the floor is wet with my grief, the house is crying with me.

My mother wraps her arm around me, and we share our immense sadness, wailing in unison. I feel like a freezing hand has touched my heart and turned it to stone and then walled it in for good measure; it will never to see the sun again. Then, in the middle of this lonely forest of grief, a realization: I realize that this is a sign. Anyone who tries to help me will end up like Joramel. Anyone could be next: mom, the only other that seems to care for me; Caitlyn, the nice counselor from school. I can't let them suffer for trying to heal my gnarled heart and my useless brain. I lean close to mom and take a deep sniff of her hair; it smells like cinnamon with a small hint of sugar and salt. I sniff it for the last time. I lower my head to her ears, and whisper, "I love you mom, and I'm sorry for everything I've done to you." She looks bewildered.

Then I run out of the kitchen-still crying-and leap up the stairs to my room, two at a time.

Carefully, I draw out my double-bladed knife from under all the socks in my drawer, make a quick incision in my arm, and scrape the blood onto the wall, forming the crude outline of letters: a message to my mother.

I love you mom, and I'll miss you. Don't cry too much, it says.

Then I slowly turn the handle by my window, and the glass silently slides opens. I can hear my mother trying to follow me up the stairs, panting, no doubt wanting to know what I'm doing. I climb up onto the windowsill, crouch down, and hug my legs. The cut on my arm doesn't hurt too much, I'm used to the pain. Besides, I deserved it. I glance at the stairs, and see my mother arriving at the top of the stairwell, out of breath. I take a long look at her, because I know it will be my last. Her eyes flick from me to the message on the wall, and a horrified expression forms on her face.

"No, don't!" She yells as she rushes for me. "Please don't do tha-"

Before she can finish, I straighten up on the windowsill and fling myself out, staring down at the hard dirt that is coming closer and closer, spreading my arms like a young eagle trying to fly for the first time. I hit the ground, and the last thing I feel is pain, immeasurable pain reverberating through my body like an off-beat drum, and my lungs collapsing in on themselves like mountains being brought down after years and years of corrosion. My vision slowly fades into a light shade of grey, and I raise my gaze to the heavens and wave - wave at everyone and everything I'm leaving behind...