Falling Apart

Chapter 1

“Are you sure you're okay?”
“Guys, I'm fine,” I answer to Jake's question. “Seriously. I can't wait to see that town.”
Nick narrows his eyes a little, “Or you can't wait to investigate every single person living there, to find our if they knew mom or not,” he says.
Jake and Dan grin at that, but I just roll my eyes. “Maybe if any of you would've saved a freaking photo of her, I wouldn't have to.” They chuckle.
“Elizabeth, who are you talking to?!” my dad yells from the other side of my locked door, his fist banging against it repeatedly. I hear all the people who he has here today, laughing.
Who am I supposed to talk to, you idiot? “My brothers?”
I hear him sigh deeply, “Have you packed?”
I wanna throw a sarcastic comeback to him, but I can’t. “As always,” I mumble. He just walks away, he couldn't care less. I gulp and look around in my room. The place is a mess. Everything smells like smoke and alcohol because of my father. I only have an old thin mattress on the dusty floor and then all my clothes and some stuff I really need (hairbrush, some makeup, toothbrush, razors, etc.) are in a small box.
Razors. It'd be so easy. Just take it, place it on your arm and you're free. Just place it on your arm and slide it towards your body. The few minutes in pain don't count. You'll get free of everything: your life, the pain, the scars that will never disappear, the constant trouble of washing yourself with icy cold water for hours, just to get off the cigarette and alcohol smell from your hair and body. Just take the damn razor, Betty. It will solve all your problems within a second. Think about it; all the voices screaming in your head over and over and over again... They will stop.
“Betty?” Dan asks. I shake my head rapidly, making my hair fly onto my shoulder, and then look back at the screen with a sad smile.
“What were you thinking about?” Nick asks.
“Nothing, I just... Looked around the room.” I press my arms against my stomach tighter, making it hurt under the soft white layer of my shirt and hoodie. The stomach isn't the problem though, my arms are. The fresh cuts on them are burning against the thick material.
“Show me your arms,” Jake demands.
I shake my head. “I'm fine.”
“Betty,” Nick warns. I sigh a little and loosen my arms around the stomach. I let my hands form two fists, so that they wouldn't at least see what is going on with my palms. I let my weak hands tug up the sleeves of my grey old tattered hoodie and immediately a gasp comes from one of their mouths.
“Betty,” he breathes out again. I'm staring at my lap, head lowered. My throat is burning, demanding water. And so are my eyes, because I need to cry. A hot tear falls onto my cheek.
“They're fresh, Betty. You need to have bandage on,” Dan says.
“They're not that bad,” I murmur.
“Not that bad?” Jake chuckles and from what I can hear, he's sad and angry. “They're the worst you've had. How can you even... How did you stop the blood, you have what, 10 new?”
“Jake, stop,” Nick says softly. “Betts, is dad going to rent an apartment or..?” I give him a small shrug. He sighs. “If it's another house, I won't have more money, but if it's not... I can find you a therapist, okay? A good one this time.”
My head's burning. I know I need to answer something, but I don't know what. So I just sigh. “I'll send you a text when I get there tomorrow. Bye,” I murmur.
“No, Betty, don't-“ I cut them off, declining the call and turn my phone on silent. I push it off from where it was placed; against the wall, on the only luggage I have. The boys insisted me on buying it.
I plug it into my charger and lie down on my bed. You can't name it a bed though, it's just a mattress. An old one. We're living in a big house at the moment, because Nick is paying for it. It's the biggest and prettiest we've been in. I have my own bathroom in my room, which is the best thing. I even managed to transport the washing machine here, so that I could do my laundry.
A glass shatters somewhere. And then another one. I jump at the first sound, but cover my ears for the second one. Headphones, Betty. Use your headphones.
I climb to the other side of the mattress and open one of the boxes quietly. It's the one for everything else than clothes. All of these things, I've been getting thanks to Nick. He's the one getting paid the most, he's the one because of who me, dad, (and when the twins run out of money, they too), can get ourselves food, clothes and dad can rent houses like this just to trash them and escape later.
I plug my headphones in as well now, put my 'Sad Love Song Playlist' on, and slide them onto my wet blonde hair. As usual, I start humming to the song currently playing, but think about completely other stuff.
It's funny how me and all of my brothers have blonde hair. Dad isn't the blondest guy out there, so all of that came from mom.
The boys' eyes are blue, just like dad's, but they've never told me, what color eyes mom had. I hope they were green. Like mine.
Dad is a tall guy, so are my brothers. I'm just the normal size I think. You know... 5'4 or something similar. I'm skinny, like too skinny.
Today Jake said I needed to eat more junk to get my collarbones and shoulder gaps to disappear a little.
I wish I could disappear.
'Just the way you are' by Bruno Mars comes on. I start humming to it, listening and thinking about the words.
I'm a hopeless romantic. I love reading romance books. They make me dream and hope that maybe someday, I'll find someone who wants me as I am. Who loves me endlessly, not caring about the scars all over my body or about how broken I am from the inside.
Yes, boys have asked me out before. But usually, it's just because they find out who I'm related to. That my brother is the Nicholas Cooper.
And then after a week or two of dating, they'd find out about my father, or what my room looks like, or see one of my scars.
Just one scar, and they're gone. Just one story about my dad when they ask about my family, and they're off to child-services. What do we do then? We run.
I have so many new bruises all over my stomach and thighs and wrists. They're not that new, already turning green. Dad hurt me again, after another call from child services five days ago.
The bruises aren't the problem. The cuts are. He's wearing a ring. I haven't seen him without it once. And the ring cuts my skin every single time his fist touches it. That's where the scars come from.