Rooftops - A Year In The Making

Chapter 4 - I'm Riley

"I'm Riley"  I say, I've never been good socially.  Never been able to make conversation, but Cass seemed the opposite of that.  Confidant and polite.  Not that I'm not polite, I am, I just don't know how to show it.

She stares into my green eyes, she looks like she is trying to figure me out as she tilts her head to the side, almost like a cute puppy, and again, I return to being in awe of the girl stood in front of me.
"Can I sit here"  She asks pointing to the empty spot that is free of moss.

I nod yes to her and she slowly sits down next to me.
"I like your hair"  She says after a minute of silence.
"Thank you"  I say looking away awkwardly.  She starts to pick more moss off of the roof, I do that when I am bored.  I watch as her long fingers throw a bit away.  

"How old are you?"  She asks, trying to make conversation.
"15"  I answer quickly, not sharp, not rude, but quickly.
"Oh, cool, me too, you know I'm so glad I have someone my age to talk to here because I thought I would have no-one as I am home-schooled."
"Yeah"  I say quietly.  It's not that I don't want to talk to her, it's that I don't think I can, I don't want to open up to someone, she seems to think we are friends already.

I have had friends, at one point I had many.  I used to be popular in primary school but theres always a pressure to be open to your friends, to have no secrets.  When I had to keep all these secrets, when I don't want to tell anyone.  All my friends slowly drifted away.  And it was hard.  I don't want that to happen again.

"Do you go the the local school?"  She doesn't look at me this time, like she knows, like she understands I don't want her too.
"Yeah"  I say.  "Excuse me, one minute."  I say as I get up.
"Where are you going?"  She says lifting her body off the tiles with her hands as if she is getting up as well.
"Urm.. toilet, bye"

I get up quickly and climb through the window.  As I get into my room and on land on my bed I sneak a quick glance to the roof again, she stares into my orbs.  I thinks it's a concerning look, I don't know.  I don't smile, I don't frown.  I don't do anything, just look away.

As I walk out of my room into the small landing I glance at my watch.  10:15.  It's still early and mum still won't wake up for many more hours.  I speed walk into the bathroom as the last two steps turn into a run and I quickly close the door behind me.  I lock it very slowly to avoid the click sound as it turns into place.

Then I put the toilet lid down and just sit there.  The mirror against the wall opposite me is cracked in a jagged line through the center.  Why cant I be normal.  Why can't I have a normal life.  Why can't I have a normal family.  Why cant I make friends!

The word normal come up a lot with people who aren't happy with themselves.  Wishing to be 'normal'.  Obviously, there isn't a normal, but I'm sure you've been told that many times.  However society makes a 'normal'.  A strict line of what you should affirm to due to your religion, race, gender and age.  And anywhere outside of those lines, you're not happy.  But normal is different to everyone, because normal is you. Normal is what you do every day, how you feel, and what you look like.  Because you cant change that, and that's okay.  Just, in some cases, it's too difficult to understand.

I feel my eyes start to swell as I start to get angry with myself.  I feel like my brain is fighting me, it's trying to say it isn't my fault but I'm winning the fight.  Glistening tears start to fall down my bony face and roll along my cheeks.  My brain keeps saying it's not me, it's all her fault, she kicked dad out, she ruined you.  Until I block my brain out.

I'm just left with me.

It's your fault.  Your pushing everyone away.  It's your fault he left.  It's your fault she is like that.  The cuts are because of you.  The bruises are because of you.  Everything is because of you.  Everything.  Everything.  

I don't have to stand up to reach the cabinet.  The door closest to me is open and I reach in pulling out a razor.  The little plastic cover is already off.  I hold it in my thin fingers and roll my baggy sleeve up to my elbow.  There must be hundreds of little lines already there.  Each with a story.  All I can hear is the thump of my heart beating, it seems so distant, so far away.  Then I hear myself inside again, chanting.  

Do it.  Do it.  Do it.  Do it.  Do it.  And I listen.  I obey.

I can hardly tell the difference between the freshly made scars and the old ones, because they aren't that old at all.  

I set the razor down on the side of the sink and stare at the damage.  It feels good, the pain.  It's not as strong as before, I've got to used to it now.  The blood hasn't dried yet.  It doesn't seep out of everywhere.  Just in sections of each line.  The area around starts to go red and I just sit there staring as it dries up and darkens in shade.

The shininess drifting away and being replaced by darkness.

I must sit there for about 30 minutes.  Staring, I don't even think.  My mind is clear.  I feel free.  Then the thoughts flood me again.  I start to think of Cass again.  How nice she is.  how confidant she is...  How different from me she is.  And how the biggest of her worries is that she is home-schooled.  As I think of her again sadness overcomes my body again and I look to the mirror for support.  It doesn't give.  It just takes.

I slowly stand, using my arms to push me off the seat.  Then I wash my hands.  Although it is now only.... 11:00  I have already washed them too many times to count.  I turn the tap on and let it run for what seems like ages as I let the sharp cold water run over my red and sore hands.  Then i go to the soap bottle which always seems to be almost empty.  As I rub it into my hands, I concentrate purely on what I am doing.  I scrub my hands fiercely, fuelled by anger I constantly have for myself.

It doesn't help my skin like it is meant to do, it makes it worse.  The rashes I have for exactly this are matching my anger as the cold water stabs into them.

"Where's my fucking beer?!"  Oh God.  Why is she up this early?  I didn't think she knew what this time of day looked like.
""What the hell is the ti--11 fucking 10!  I bet it was you, you little bitch, where are you.  I bet you woke me up!"

I knew that if I stay in here the beating would be worse, even more relentless, so after I tuck the blade away under the sink I open the door.  To accept who I am.  What my life consists of.  I instantly see her stumbling down the corridor, wearing the same t-shirt as yesterday, and probably the day before that.

"There you are!"  She said adjusting her vision by squinting at me.  I don't say anything. I don't feel anything.
"I'll teach you to fucking wake me up at fucking 11:10"

I know exactly what this lesson is going to be.

Riley has a form of OCD that means she washes her hands excessively, this is important to me as one of my friends used to suffer very badly with it.  It can also be caused by anxiety.  Remember, don't stay silent! There's always help out there, stay safe guys! :)