Caged Animals (A Story of Bullying)

*Chapter Three*

Back again! Alright, I looked up the bullying statistics for our nation. This is serious, everyone. Thirty percent of teenagers are involved in some form of bullying, either as the bully or the victim. THIRTY percent. We need to lower that by quite a bit. Stop this nonsense. Stop it.

"WHO SAYS YOU'RE NOT PERFECT? WHO SAYS YOU'RE NOT WORTH IT? WHO SAYS YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE THAT'S HURTIN'? TRUST ME, THAT'S THE PRICE OF BEAUTY. WHO SAYS YOU'RE NOT PRETTY? WHO SAYS YOU'RE NOT BEAUTIFUL?" ~SELENA GOMEZ

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*Chapter Three*

When I arrived home from school that day, I dropped my bag next to the door, too weak to move it any farther. I scuffled into the kitchen, tossing my hood off my head and dropping down onto one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table. I glanced around the gloomy kitchen, feeling homesick for Harbor. Without him here, the world was a gothic painting, shot through with dismal visions of black and gray, storm clouds constantly above the meadows. I sighed, resting my heavy head in my hands. I wished that my heavy heart could do the same.

          The landline’s beep brought me out of the deafening silence. I stood up and walked over to it, each step echoing louder and louder throughout the lonely house. Pressing the answering machine’s button, I leaned against the counter, waiting for the message.

          “Harb? Evie?” a high voice asked. I lifted my head. Aunt Rebecca! Maybe she was coming home, so I could put up my façade again and act like everything was cheery and childishly bright. At least then I could have a fake world to fall back onto, and I could have a thin coating of happiness. “Oh wait, Harbor’s gone, that’s right. Evening, I need you to listen to me. Something came up. It seems that I’ll be in Europe for a couple of months, not weeks.” I straightened, staring, unbelieving, at the phone. What? No! Aunt Rebecca’s voice didn’t sound remotely apologetic or regretful. “James and Hugo need me a while longer. I’ll be back in about five months, alright?”

          No, this was not alright. I shook my head, denial flowing freely. “No, Aunt Rebecca, no,” I said aloud, fully aware that she couldn’t hear me. “No, it’s not alright. Come back, so I can at least pretend to be happy.”

          “Oh, and one more thing, Evening. Now, you have to listen to me, Evening Elizabeth Anne Wilcox: don’t utter a word of this to Social Services. You’ll be sent to a foster home, where you’ll know no one. Alright? Alright. Bye, Evie!” The dial tone pierced into the sudden silence.

             I leaned back against the granite countertop, my head resting on a cupboard door. A foster home sounded like a fantastic idea to me. Knowing no one would give me freedoms that I didn’t receive here. In a foster home, I would have an adult constantly there, not traveling or worrying about their work. In a foster home, I would have healthy relationships. In a foster home, I wouldn’t be dependent upon my brother.

            I sighed, reaching listlessly for the refrigerator door and swinging it open. I started to reach for a container of leftover tomato soup, but stopped. Taunting words resonated through my thoughts: Fatass…two pints of Ben and Jerry’s…ate all day…fatass…

            I violently slammed the door shut and crossed my arms, listening to my stomach growl. I wouldn’t be eating for a while. Call it binging and purging, call it anorexia, call it what you will, but I didn’t want to eat a full meal until I was thin.

            Kicking off my shoes, I lifted my backpack off the ground and walked upstairs. The silence of the house loudly resounded in my ears.  Entering my room, I carefully shut the door, out of habit. I flung my backpack by my desk and fell onto my bed, closing my eyes. I took deep, steadying breaths, concentrating on numbing my mind to a blank. I laid like that for a few moments, feeling myself drift away. It could be like this all the time, I reminded myself, if I only had a gun or a sword.

            I sat up, blinking, and turned to my bedside table. On it sat a framed photograph, the wooden etchings of hearts cuddling the two people inside the frame. I leaned over and grabbed it, hugging it to my chest. Deep sobs heaved my abdomen and clogged my throat. I let the tears fall easily, not caring.

            “I miss you, Mom and Dad,” I choked out, looking down at the photograph. My mother’s tumbling black curls and warm brown eyes smiled comfortingly at me; my father’s clear blue eyes and soft brown hair grinned sternly. The longing ache for my parents grew acutely stronger. I kissed their likenesses gently, whispering, “It’s been eight years, and that’s still not long enough.” I set the photograph back in its proper place, licking my lips and wiping away the lingering tears.

            I gazed about my room, searching for something to take my mind off the day. Spotting the journal Harbor had given me, I jumped off my bed and went over to my desk, fixating myself in the chair and snatching my favorite pen. It had been a gift from my father, from when his firm traveled to Denmark. There had been a store that specialized in all things literary, and Dad had found what he wanted for me: this pen. It had a perfect, sharp point that slid naturally across any page. It was specifically designed to fit a person’s grip perfectly, and was a gloriously beautiful midnight blue. Across the shaft, from tip to end, was my name in cursive, silver letters: Evening. I could still envision Dad handing it to me on Christmas day, along with five new notebooks. “A special pen for my beautiful angel,” he had told me, kissing my forehead. “To get you started in the writing industry.” My young six-year-old eyes had inspected the pen in wonderment, pleased with my gift. Afterwards, I had sat down and written three short stories with it, each about a girl with magical powers.

            Little did I know that my own magic—my parents—would be taken away from me in one foul swoop, only two years later.

            I opened the new journal to the first page and began to write, pouring my emotions out onto the glorious white paper. I recreated my disastrous day, painting vivid scenes and including nasty details. I knew that no one would ever read my journal, so I could describe whatever I wanted, and explain my emotions in powerful wording.

            After I had told all that had happened and had taken up four pages of my journal, I closed it and hid it in a desk drawer. I felt a bit better, as if I had just told a friend about my awful, bitter life. I could never tell that to anyone in reality.

            I pivoted around in my chair and unzipped my backpack. We were reading Jane Eyre in English this year, which I found ironic. I could completely relate to poor Jane’s beginnings and her treatment throughout the novel. This year would be the sixth time I’ve read it, but seeing that it was one of my favorite books, I had decided to re-read it along with the class.

            I adored reading. It was a way for me to escape and immerse myself in the character’s issues for a while. Some were trivial, ridiculous problems to worry about; others were serious and life-changing. Either way, it was an escape route out of my reality, and I would hungrily jump into a new story, becoming the characters. I had no preferred genre. My personal library was filled with anything from non-fiction to fantasy, and I enjoyed reading each and every one. My collection consisted of over three hundred books, packed away in various places, and I had read each of them at least twice.

            I had reached chapter three, where Jane wakes up from her near-coma caused by exile to the Red Room, when my thoughts drifted. I slowly lowered the book, returning to my revelation from earlier that day.

            I placed a bookmark in my place and pulled out a blank sheet of loose leaf paper. I didn’t title it, but jumped right in:

            First question: What is less painful? Gun, knife, pills, hanging, etc.

            Second question: Final note? Yes or no?

            Third question: When? When should this happen? As soon as possible.

            Fourth question: Will anyone care? Even a little bit?

            I already knew the answer to the last question: no. No, no one would care if I were gone. It wouldn’t affect anyone’s life, wouldn’t drastically change them. Along with ending my suffering, I would end theirs.

            No. No one would care.