•Annabelle•

Chapter 7

It had been at least a week since that day that Lily had helped me home, and since then I've been mostly sleeping.

I had tried a couple of a days ago to go to the dreaded school again, but I lasted no longer than half the day before I came home.

But an improvement is an improvement, right?

I sulked at the edge of my bed, the bright morning light glaring through the flimsy curtains.

I stared at the walls around me, watching how with every minute that the sun got higher it illuminated a new quarter of the black splatters.

In a way, it was almost beautiful, watching the light mingle with the stains of the dark, but the sun risen light could only last so long;

Just like everything else.

I remember how when I was younger, my parents would wake up early so I could see the colours dance together when the sun rose, my, it was a sight.

I haven't been able to look at one in forever, I just can't find it in me to wake up early anymore.

I made my way to the window, the light blinding me as I slowly pulled back the curtains.

Dust flung from the swaying piece of fabric, they seemed to move with a new sense of purpose now for once being in use.

When my eyes adjusted, I stared out across the paved road, urban houses plopped one by one along it; the sun rising just above the peaks of the roofs.

It was beautiful, and as I stared across the lovely sight a sudden urge to create burst through me; and I scrambled to my desk and got shattered pen and a half torn paper. I started scribbling words across the page, trying to describe what I felt.

From the midst of the houses a bright morning sun illuminated the homes, its rays reflecting tiny rainbows across the windows. An almost bright sense of happiness could be felt among everyone, joy in a way. It was beautiful, almost perfect.

Almost.

I clenched the breaking pen in my fist, staring down at how obvious my pain was, it even showed in my writing.

As I tightened my grip on the pen, I could feel the warm blood dripping from my fingers as the sharp plastic shattered from within my palm.

I let out an angered groan as I launched the stained pen across my room, watching its ink mix with the blood and bleed into the carpet.

Shoot.

How in the world would I explain that?

With my now injured fist I slammed the table, grunting a screech, not sure really if it was meant for the pain in my hand or my head. My eyes darted to the already torn paper I wrote on and I ripped in in half, my breathing coming in rapid breaths.

Soon the paper was completely shredded, and there was nothing more I could tear. I slouched back in my chair, holding my hand close to my heart once the pain finally soaked in. Taking a deep breath I trudged to the wobbly side table beside my bed, grabbing the plastic water bottle and the icky cloth that sat under it.

I collapsed onto my bed, sitting cross legged as I slowly dripped the water from the container onto my hand.

It stung so bad, but I snatched the cloth from my side and dabbed it.

I could've easily have gotten a Band-Aid from the kitchen, but how could I let my parents see me like this?

Once the pain eased, I wrapped the cloth around my palm, tying it tightly so it would stop bleeding. I can't believe what my life has come to.