Open Cage

Confined

It was funny to think that just when you started to gain control over your life, it could be ripped out of your grasp before you even had time to rejoice.

It wasn't the first time it had happened to me, and it kept happening, as though I was a desperate dog chasing after a ball before it got away, only to have it thrown even further from me when I finally caught up to it.

Again and again and again.

The truth was, I was tired of being depressed.

Tired of all the whispers behind my back when people thought I couldn't see them, tired of crying myself to sleep every night and suffering from sleep deprivation the next day. I was tired of all the looks and sitting alone in the cafeteria day after day... lunch hour after lunch hour. Tired, tired, tired.   

Under my breath, I hummed "Skyscraper" by Demi Lovato as I cleaned the music stands in the band room. It was the only place I could escape to from all of the staring and judging looks: the only place where I was safe from the pity and disapproval... all of the attention I never asked for. Of course, I got it anyway. It was like the stares of my peers could cut me open and reveal my insides to the public. I already had enough insecurities about how I appeared on the outside; I didn't want to know how I would deal with being flipped inside-out, my thoughts and feelings visible for all to see.

I tried to hold in my tears as I distracted myself with the music, a practice I'd come to be good at over the months of isolation even though they were so desperate for release. I knew the feeling. Intent on confining my emotions and locking them away in their ever-growing cell, I barely noticed when my sad humming turned to lyrics, or when a girl walked in, knocking tentatively on the door. I looked up, pushing a strand of bronze hair out of my face, shocked to silence but not embarrassed. I was so past embarrassment.

"Um... I forgot my binder." Her blue eyes flicked over to where a thick black book rested on the risers: the talent show files. The files she was in charge of . . . . Her and Leven.

Natalie Price. She was one of the popular girls. The ones who greedily ate up your secrets, digested them, and spat them right back out so everyone could see them in a state even uglier than they were before. They were the reason why I was here right now. They couldn't keep their mouths shut, couldn't stop searching for more victims and more spirits to kill.

I didn't say anything, just continued my work in tense silence as she shuffled over to grab the papers. She paused for a moment in her place, and then looked up at me. 

"Your name is Brooke, right?"

I didn't look up, but stopped still in my spot. My head froze over the stand I was cleaning and the cloth that I was holding was petrified in mid-air. I felt like a statue someone might find in a museum, the kind no one cared to look at. I slowly relaxed and dropped my hand to my side, which was even paler than usual. Under my jeans, I was positive that my legs were shaking, but my fear was quickly replaced by rage boiling in the pit of my stomach. I hated her for making me feel this way. I hated everyone for going on with their lives while I had to sit here and wallow in my own misery.

I hated myself because I was too scared, too uncomfortable in my own skin, to do anything about it.

Still, I relented and struggled to meet her eyes, as though a repelling force was pushing me away. Instead of speaking, as I didn't trust myself to say what I intended to,  I nodded. This was the girl that was partly responsible for what happened.

What more could she want?

"I just... overheard you singing. You're good." More hesitation. "You should enter the talent show."