Alienated

Shooting Stars

                                                                CHAPTER TWO

                                                               SHOOTING STARS

September 17, 2004 

Dear Justin, 

Yeah, okay. Things still suck. Honors classes has sucked out just about every ounce of creativity that I've managed to salvage for the school year. I'd be surprised if I even completed a doodle by the time the semester ends. You just don't /get/ it, man, this stuff is draining. And it's all totally useless, too. Like, seriously, why would all those famous historians and scientists sit with all those books in their studies, if they just had everything memorized, anyways? I seriously don't get the point of non-open-book tests. All History IS, is looking things up. That's /it/. 

I'll try not to be so negative, I guess. 

How are you doing? I miss you. Things are really boring around here, especially since Dad's been working his ass off at the Institute. If he doesn't think that I know he's up to something really fucking shady by now, he's an idiot. Seriously, it's in every movie ever-he's totally a mad scientist. Totally. 

Waiting to hear from you soon, 

Hannah Hammer

There were some things that a teenage girl just wasn't meant to deal with. 

There were some thoughts that just weren't meant to be in her head, really. A teenage girl shouldn't be suspicious of her father's all-nighters at the Institute, she shouldn't have to worry about the traces of blue dye that always surround the cuffs of his pristine labcoat, she shouldn't be noticing the unsettling twitching in his fingers when he held silverware, or the deepness of the bags under his eyes. 

She shouldn't know these things. 

She shouldn't notice these things. 

And she definitely, definitely shouldn't want to blame her dad for something that she didn't even know about. 

Hannah Tobias Eliza Hammer grasped tightly to the edge of her desk, feeling the familiar pounding headache begin to spread through her skull. Her hand scampered across the surface for the pill bottle, the contents rattling as she jerked the lid open and popped the pill onto her waiting tongue. 

Her throat squeezed and released as she swallowed, and sighed, feeling the pain start to lessen. She'd been told that it would've stopped by now, and what did she get? More pain, more pills, and more trips to sterile, white offices. The cure had become her sickness, but in turn, also her salvation. 

Hannah tied her hair back with a spare band, and casually observed her reflection in the vanity mirror. Who was she to notice her father's bags underneath his eyes, when hers were practically painted on? If anything, her sleep schedule was probably more erratic and unpredictable than a certain scientist. 

She really needed to sleep. After switching off her lamp and promptly falling into her nest of blankets and flattened pillows, Hannah risked a glance outside the window, catching sight of a falling star. She smiled, made a wish, and laid her head down to a peaceful sleep.