A Heart With A Million Scars (ON HOLD... Sorry)

Clean cloths or the stupid shrink

When it's a reasonable time to get ready for school. I put the knife back where it belongs, under my bathroom sink. Then I remove any evidence of blood on my body. I go into my room and put on the first things by hands touch. I think I ended up in black trackies and my Florence and the machine T-shirt. A black jacket and black flats. She took my to see Flo three years ago. She insisted I buy the shirt so I have something to remember 'this awesome night with'. Her words. I couldn't bare to throw the shirt out because she enjoyed that night so much. I did too, but all of my happy memories have faded with time, leaving me with my misery.

***

“OH MY GOD!” She screams in my ear. “Florence is going to be on that stage in a matter of seconds! Can you believe it El?”

“No, I can't” I scream over the noise of the crowd. Just then we see the shape of Florence behind a screen then the band or 'the machine” starts the intro of Dog days are over. And Florence starts to sing. Kate screams in my ear, but I don't mind if she's happy. Than I’m happy. We sing alone with most of the songs. But sometimes we stop and just listen to the amazing Florence. Man that girl can sing.

When the concert was over neither of us could keep the smile off our faces. We stopped for ice-cream on the way home. And even our parents, well mum really. Yelling at us when we got home too late, because it was a school night. Not even that could wipe the smile off our faces. We went to bed in the happiest mode ever.

***

A tear escapes from the corner of my eye as I remember that night. She always told me I was a good singer. But like everything else she was better at it than me. I don't sing any more though. It reminds me of her too much. She was amazing at singing. When she sang she sounded like a angle. I know a lot of people say that but she really did. I wanted to be her. She was amazing at everything. I don't think there was a person alive that knew her that didn't want to be her. It was only a few months after that concert that she. . . It's hard to believe someone who was so happy could suddenly be so miserable they couldn’t see another way out, so they ended their life but brought misery and unhappiness to their friends, family, everyone who loved them. I pull my hair up into its normal ponytail. Its either that or just leave it down to knot during the day. I walk past the mirror, not stopping to see what I look like or to apply make-up. I don't want to see her brown eyes looking back at me. Her eyes on my face that have lost their spark. The same spark that no one realised she'd lost too. Or her red hair that it pulled back into a messy ponytail. My hair isn't as bright as hers was but that doesn't stop me thinking of her every time I see it framing my face. If she saw what I looked like now she would have a fit. The dark circles under my eyes. The cloths that I don't give a shit about. The tangled mess that is my hair. Then when she got the cloths off she would see the manly scars, that I've collected over the years. She'd see how skinny I've gotten, since me and food no longer like each other. But she's not here. She's not here to tell me to sleep more, eat more, or to brush my hair every morning or to give me a talking to about cutting like mothers should. But she's not here and my mother could not care less about me. I go down to the kitchen and let out a small sigh when I see its empty. I can't face my parents right now. Seeing the hate in their eyes when they look at me. The pain and sorrow that fills them when they aren't looking at me. I put two pieces of toast into the toaster and wait for them to pop pack up. When they do I spread jam on them and take three bits and throw the rest in the bin. I don't want to eat and I don't need to. My body has adapted to the lack of food it gets now. I get my bag ready and walk to my car. Yes my parents still got me a car. But that's all they've gotten for me in three years. They don't cook for me, I have to do that myself. My mother cooks dinner for herself and my father but leaves me to cook for myself. They don't do my laundry. It's up to me to have clean cloths for school. Not that I really care if my cloths are dirty or not. But if I have clean cloths on then its less likely the school will make me talk to the school councillor again. They did after I found her in her bathtub. They made me because I was the one who found her. They thought they could help me in some way. How the hell could they have helped me? I found my sister after she killed herself. What could they have done? Told me it wasn't my fault. Well guess what my parents believe it is. I can't help but thinking it is too. What the fuck could a fucking school do to help me? Tell me its normal, because last I checked a eighteen year old committing suicide isn't 'normal'. Not one who's parents adore her. Not one who's loved by everyone she tourers, looks at, is in the same room as her. It was impossible not to love her. But the school gave up on making me go to see the stupid shrink when they finally realised that I wasn't going to talk, or maybe it was when they realised they couldn't help me at all. My parents don't even help me with my homework even though they know I struggle with school. They don't care. I was always the disappointment. The child they wished they never made. I wish they'd never made me too. Then I’d never have met her, and wouldn't fell the pain of losing her. Sometimes I think my parents forget that I’m a human being. If they forget that what hope do I have of them remembering I’m there daughter. Maybe not the one they love and want but I still have the same genes as them. As much as they hate it, hate me. They can't escape that. Their blood runs through my veins. They hate me, I hate me. They think I’m worthless, I think I'm worthless. They'd prefer her to be here, I'd prefer her to be here. So how different are we really? We all want the same thing, the one thing we can never have. We want Kate. There we go. Thinking her name. By now I’m in the school parking lot. I rest my head against the steering wheel as the tears flow down my cheeks. Yeah thinking her name does this to me. Makes my break down. Makes the tears fall that I’ve been holding in for so long. Saying or hearing her name is worse. When that happens I have a full break down. So people have stopped saying her name when I’m around. People have stopped talking to me all together really. The only time my 'classmates' talk to me now is when we are partnered up for an assignment. I'm ok with that. Silence works for me. It means I don't have to pretend to listen to what they are saying, don't have to pretend I care. It means I don't have to put on a fake smile and pretend to be happy, when I’m so miserable I just want to crawl up in bed and die. This way I’m in my own world of pain, sorrow and self loathing. This way I can't hurt anyone but myself. I take a deep breath and grab my bag and go and face the hell that is high school.