Envy

CHAPTER 7: Alysa (November)

The ache in my chest hasn’t gone away, not once, sense Mom told me that Kim was coming home. My skin itches, begging me to spilt it open, and my heart thumps in agreement. 

Everyday after school, I shuffle up the stairs, pat Dexter on the head because he’s aways sitting on my bed waiting for me to get home, and then plant my butt in front of my laptop. I do my normal routine, get on Facebook, check my notifications, message with my boyfriend Braxton, and watch a few youtube videos. 

My life is so boring, that I’ve gotten used to my Dad calling me a lazy bum, because I never help with dishes, laundry, cleaning the house-hell I never even clean my room-or anything. Why would I? Kim will be home in a few days, and she’ll tear it all to pieces. What’s the point?

My mother tells me that Kim doesn’t know when she’s coming home, but that her and Dad finally contacted the hospital and told them they’re ready, or mentally ready to take on the challenge of Kim again. But they didn’t ask me. I’m not ready.

I’ll never be ready.

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Leaves swings on the branches of trees, swaying in the wind before taking a final dance of death and fall to the ground, coating the brown grass in fiery colors of orange, red, and yellow. Sometimes burgundy. 

My feet drag through the leaves, kicking them up in the air so it rains colors. My black hair hangs in my face, shielding me from the preps as they walk by, talking about their boyfriends and their next nail appointment I assume. I wouldn’t know. I can’t hear them, mainly because I have my headphones in so I don’t have to listen to them. 

Sometimes they talk to me because they just want to the answers to their homework they didn’t do. And they get pissed, and I mean pissedwhen I don’t give it to them. It’s kinda funny. More like, really funny. 

They only try to get my answers, and not anyone else's because I get strait A’s. The way I see it, the high the grades, the more of a life you look like you have. My teacher’s don’t ask about the scars on my arms, or the dried blood under my finger nails. They don’t care. As long as I’m doing my class work, or whatever.

At first I think the preps are going to leave me alone, like I wish’d they would, until Ellen Mcrow smacks my hand carrying my books with her tennis bag, sending papers and books everywhere. A few papers get caught by the fall breeze, floating a few feet away. I curse under my breath, glowering at her from under my hair. I see her lips move, saying something I can’t hear over my music. I tear out my headphones.

“What?” I growl.

“I said,” she hisses, flipping her long golden hair over her shoulder, “when are you going to get a new wardrobe? Black is like, a little out of season.” She flashes perfect teeth at me evilly. “Well, let me rephrase that. A little gothic.” She giggles and turns to her friends, pointing her thumb at me from over her shoulder. They all laugh at me. 

I hurry and pick up my bag, my eyes stinging. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I mutter. 

Ellen twirls around on her heels, eyes glaring at me, her perfect eyebrows knitted together. “What did you say?” She spats, and behind her, I hear a few giggles. But at who they’re directed to, I don’t know. 

I stand straiter, clutching my bags to my chest. “You heard me. Just because you’re miss priss bitch doesn’t mean I have to repeat myself to you.” I turn around, walking the other direction, or the long way home, and don’t look back. 

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I knock on my back door, a way of telling my parents I”m home without really having to talk to them. I never really do. 

I normally don’t want to, but I can’t say I don’t miss my mom. With the news of Kim, I haven’t really talked to her, and we were getting pretty close in the past five months. Mainly because instead of taking me to the hospital to get stitches or a cast, she was taking me to the mall to go shopping. Instead of telling her that I need some pain killers, I was talking to her about boys, and asking what to do with my nails. 

Girl talk. 

With my dad, it was a different story. Kim was his little princess. I was an accident, as my sister would tell me. (Over and over and over again.) With her gone, Dad wont talk to me, and I feel like he blames me for her being gone. Or for anything, for that matter. Like, dear God. I’m sorry I’m still here. I was always a Mommy’s little girl. I’m perfectly okay with that. 

But I try not to talk to either of them. Not anymore anyway. It’s been two weeks. I have a few hours left. Tomorrow she’ll come home.

Climbing the stairs to my room, I flop onto the bed, sighing. All of a sudden my pocket vibrates, and I flip onto my stomach and stuff my hand into my pocket, digging it out. 

The screen is bright, and on it reads a text message from Braxton. Bby, i miss u. wen u coming over? My fingers fly across the touch screen buttons, typing a short reply that I can’t make it over tonight, because my parents aren’t leaving early for work tomorrow. My parents had taken the day off of work to welcome there big bundle of joy home. 

The phone vibrates again. But i thought u said u were gonna come over?

I was going to. But dad and mom will be here tomorrow morning, so I can’t just go to school from your house in the morning. They’ll know I was gone.

I know I pissed him off when the only reply I get is: K.

Pretty ticked off myself, I scurry into the shower, wash my eyeliner and mascara off, and head straight to bed. I don’t have any dreams.

I only have nightmares.