The Future isn't Bright

Eight

Another car ride spent trying to understand wild events could make any girl go crazy. Mother made it very crystal clear that she didn't want anyone to know about her sudden outburst and that she would never act like that again. To me, she went back to being the uncaring, insensitive Mother that I've known all my life.

Once I got home, I felt like a walking log, sturdy looking on the outside, yet hollow and empty on the inside. Commanding my shaky legs to move, I passed the neverending hallway and marched up the spiral staircase with a mask of indifference. My life was falling apart. And it's mostly Grandmother's fault.

I slowly climbed onto my bed and curled up into a tight ball. I laid in said position and simply thought. I thought, yet didn't cry. Crying was for the weak. I eventually couldn't take it anymore and stood up. I was spending an awful lot of time in my bed lately. I proceeded to the bathroom. Slowly, I turned on the light. Once my eyes adjusted, I turned toward the mirror.

My reflection messed up the crystal mirror's perfect image. My hair looked like a rat's nest and bags were visible under my eyes from my long day. The things that angered me the most were my eyes. I scowled. The blue-brown mess on my face made even the most disgusting people pity me. And it was true. I was pitiful.  

Why couldn't I be normal? Why couldn't I be like Elle? My hair was never smooth enough, my stomach never flat enough, and my skin not tan enough. I looked back at the mirror. My reflection stood there, taunting me. My scowl deepened and my eyes narrowed. Anger burrowed deep into my soul.

You'll never be good enough.

My cheeks heated up.

You're a mistake.

I couldn't take it anymore. I turned to my right and pounded my fist into the door. My eyes were shut tight, my fist a warm, bloody mess. I slid into a crouched position, my back against the door, and inhaled sharply, refusing to look down at my hand. After a few seconds, my face as well as my hand was wet. My hand from blood. My face from forsaken tears.

Ava rushed through the opposite door of the bathroom. She collapsed to her knees in front of me.

"Donna..." she whispered, "Your hand." I looked down at my bloody left hand.  

"It doesn't even hurt." I said meekly. It was true. I didn't really feel pain unless it was extreme, like when I broke my leg during a gymnastics meet about four years ago.  

"Donna..." Ava took my crippled hand into hers and inspected it. Without question, she quickly rushed downstairs for some ice and gauze. I leaned my head back against the wall and let my hand sit in its own little red puddle.

When she first applied ice, my hand felt set aflame. I grimaced slightly, biting my lip, but felt a soothing sensation a few moments later. She gently wrapped my hand with the fresh gauze. If my mother would have came, she would have been disgusted, thrown me a healing cream in a tube, and told me to deal with it myself. Ava was not like that.

"Ava... Does Mother know about, well, this?" I gestured toward my hand, trying not to flinch. She shook her head.

"She left the house for a few hours. Your sister has her tennis lessons, too." she mumbled as she sat down next to me. I breathed a sigh of relief, and Ava exhaled in response. Part of me wanted my mother to be here, to fulfill her job as my mother, to comfort me. But even if she was home, she wouldn't deal with me. She would still send Ava to attend to me.  

"Will you tell me what happened?" Ava looked at me with concern. I swallowed hard. A lump formed in my throat.

"I... Got angry..." I picked at my gauze and blinked my damp eyes.