Breathe

3

"I'm nothing . . ." My voice was monotone—conceding and accepting. Then again, I couldn't deny it. Without him, a gaping hole occupied my chest where my heart once was, robbing myself of emotions and the little chance at happiness I had left. Throbbing pain rolled through in reoccurring waves every moment my mind snapped back to yesterday night, ushering in yet another urge to collapse to the floor in a dissheavled heap and cry until my tears ran dry. Maybe then I could get a hold of myself and snap out of it, but even that seemed like a lie my subconscious utilized to raise my hopes higher than I could reach.

Nothing—

"Vera?" The high-pitched voice was filled with innocence, ignorant to the whole situation.

I scooted away from the door, startled at the sound. Pressing my head to the floor and peering through the crack between the wood and tile, fluffs of cotton coated a worn slipper, with snippets of fabric forming two ears protruding from the top and a minuscule nose tainted peach. Glossy eyes were manifested by two identical beads—or, where one used to take the place of where there was now only a break of fluff. An aged Buneary slipper, I concluded.

A dreary yawn followed after I didn't respond. "Sissy . . ."

A small smile played their way unto my lips at the girl's presence, but it drooped into a frown faster that it'd appeared. I lifted my head from the floor, swiping at my tears and sighing—composing myself. "Yes, Kat?"

"I need to go to the bathroom really bad."

The statement counteracting the mood sent me reeling in confusion, before a half-hearted giggle slipped out before I had the chance to contain it. I steadily made my way to my feet, scrunching my eyes together in humor and sucking my lips in to contain the abrupt burst of laughter. "Okay, okay, I'm coming out in a moment."

A protesting whine sounded. "But I cant hold it any longer!"

"What about the downstairs bathroom?"

I hastily slipped out of my cloths and tossed on their replacements. Flipping on the faucet, the water burst free with a groan as I dabbed the rag hanging nearby in it precociously, then delicately rubbed it below my eyes and around my lips to clear the smeared makeup.

I glanced to the mirror. Ah, not the best days I've seen, I thought as my unkempt appearance glared back at me, but this will have to do.

"—and it stinks in there!" The girl finished whatever she rambled on about before with a deciding huff.

I lied accordingly. "Oh, that explains it all." I grasped the collar of the shirt and the rim of the pants I changed out of as my hand rested on the knob of the door, before I hastily turned around to grab the hairbrush I'd brought in—and almost forgotten. I twisted the door handle and heaved the weight of the wood. "I'm coming out now."

Just as the door opened revealing a narrow crack, the girl bolted in before I'd completely escaped and then slammed the door on my back, sending me jolting forward.

I groaned. "Like I said, asshole."

I continued on in the other direction, my fingers trailing the path of the wooden railing as I twirled to face the staircase ahead. The light chatter was reduced to hush murmurs and gossip, and it made me wonder just what the fuss was to talk in such a discreet manner. Then it struck me with a blow—me. The latest source of rumor and entertainment; the very nerve making me sneer in disgust. Of course they would jump at the opportunity to poke fun and theorize at my loss.

But you knew this would happen, I reminded. By leaving them out of the details, it only fuels their desire to converse and speculate about it. You know they don't mean to make fun of you, they're just so concerned to figure out what happened in order to help you . . . that they ignore the oblivious details: that you don't like when they talk about you behind their back.

Behind their back . . .

The reasoning suddenly meant nothing to me as my anger only swelled in severity. Did no one care that I had emotions, too? That I wasn't just a child anymore that they could exclude from "mature" conversations? I was sixteen, and I'm sure that excuse should've worn out by now, yet it was continually abused. Did I mean so little to people that they should never care to address me in issues that I should know of?

"I love you Lyra . . . more than anyone else in the entire world."

I rejected the thought from my mind as soon as it'd came and allowed another to take its place as I pranced down the stairs, careful not to make a sound:

Don't let them see your pain.