Twenty Øne Reasons to Live

Chapter Three

My Point of View 

Glancing at the slowly rising sun, I took a long sip of my decaff  hot coffee, and looked around. Sitting on my roof is something I do when I can't handle life anymore. And staying up most all night is included. It's quiet, (other than nature's way of being annoying) and I don't know, it allows me to breathe and reflect. 

Sometimes that was good, and sometimes, not so good. When the sun peaked up over the two mountains ahead of me, I knew it was time to go in- it would be exactly 6:10 a.m. I still had a few minutes. My wet hair laid long on my back, already curling in the air. It was a crisp, cold morning. The kind I lived for. I wore a huge sweatshirt that was a hand-me-down from my oldest sister, Lanie, and it kept me warm. 

The cold air transformed my otherwise dull, pale cheeks into a pink rosey color. I liked that. I breathed out and a cloud took the shape of my breath, reminding me that I'm alive. Some days I honestly can't remember anymore. The days when I'm so depressed I couldn't tell you if my sluggish heart was beating anymore. I don't trust things I can't see. This steamy cloud that appears every time I exhale tells me I'm breathing. I'm alive. I hate it. 

I stood up, careful not to slip, and ducked inside my bedroom window. I hated going back inside the confining four walls They suffocated me. I packed my backpack lazily, and then went downstairs. 

I decided I'd go to "Daily Grinds", the coffee shop near my school and grab a bagel or something. That way I could stop at the music store and look at their new arrivals. I did this on Saturday's usually, but I was in the mood. You're probably all thinking I hate music by now, because of last night. Quite the contrary. I like the music, but not always the people behind it. Hypocrisy to me is the biggest sin one can commit. 

The birds greeted me as I walked down the street. I wore a long sleeve (as always) and a grey beanie. A light dusting of snow blanketed the ground, but I saw no beauty in it. I didn't see beauty in anything anymore. My failures run deep. Some deeper than my scars. 

I entered the coffee shop and the door dinged cheerfully. I ordered my coffee, and a warm bagel and went to the record store. They weren't open yet. Drats. I went to school, sighing. When I arrived, I sat on the steps, ate, and read. 

There was a break in the story and I looked up to see a guy walking down the road, in a white wife beater and baggy jeans. He threw on an overshirt and my chest contracted. I shot up and ran inside before he saw me.  

XxxxX

It was fourth period, Algebra II. We were doing some of our homework as the teacher graded our papers. I was drawing on my hand when the teacher got my attention. 

"Miss Black?" 

"Huh?" 

"Detention. Right after school." 

"Why?!" 

"She held up my paper, and I saw 'MATH IS SICK AS FRICK!!!!' written on my paper." JOSH. "I DIDN'T DO THAT!" I defended. 

"Stop. This is rude and unacceptable. Detention." 

Before detention, I have to see the psychiatrist once a week because my teachers were concerned about me or something. It's stupid, and I refuse to open up to them. But nevertheless, Mr. Wood tried again and again. 

"So, Kirsten, how are you feeling today?" he question. 

"Just dandy," I replied, looking away from him. 

"Please. I can't help you if you don't help me," his calm voice said. 

"And I can't help you."