Me & Her

Her

I've always wanted to suit up to music.

It isn't the superhero anthem I was hoping for, but then I'm not pulling on spandex leggings. At least I hope not. It's so dark I can't see what I'm doing.

My bedroom seems so small now, as if my mind has forced my body to outgrow it. The white bedspread has turned to a grey mesh fence, the walls to prison bars. My Mp3 Player blasts so heavily in my ears I barely hear the words. This won't be my prison for much longer. After a few more driving lessons, I'll be ready to leave. I can go anywhere, everywhere and no one can stop me. Alice and me, together. We can hit a new city every week, buy so many ice-creams we puke all night. I've had a craving for bubble-gum flavour since last week. Closing my eyes, I focus on tonight, what I have to do. Miss Kirby, though that's probably not her real name. Maybe I can give her a new one when I find her. Slipping the bodysuit over my shoulders, I stretch to reach the zip at the back. If only Mr. Dark was here. I bet he doesn't know what a zip even is. Somehow, I find that quite sad. He's never been on holiday, never dated, never ate at a fancy restaurant, at least not one of his choosing. He's just like me. He's never had a choice. Sharply, I finish buttoning the suit, my body covered from neck to ankles. Now is really not the time to think about him – I mean, I was perfectly fine on my own. Damn therapist. I pause, waiting eagerly for Alice to correct me and tell me that Light is a psychiatrist. But nothing reaches my ears. No haughty remark, no snappy retort. Today must have really tired her out.

'It's okay,' I whisper inside our head, praying she can hear me. 'You're not alone anymore. I've got you'. No answer. There's a slight glimmer of acceptance, but it's drained. She's practically out cold and that's a first. Is it bad that I wish she were quiet more often?

Shrugging, I dig my earphones further into my head, hoping that the lyrics will drown the world out. Will drown everything, including this led feeling in my gut. I don't tend to get nervous, especially in these situations. Yet, here I am, with dead butterflies in my stomach like some first grader on a field trip. Right. Back to business. I need a dinner knife from the kitchen, or maybe I'll be creative and take a fork this time. No, no, wait. I'll take a spork. Do we have a spork? Oh please, tell me we have a spork. Those are so in right now. They're the in-thing, they're totally in. Okay, I think I'm stalling. Just a blunt knife then, seeing as my electromagnet has frayed to the point of uselessness. Great. I think I have science tomorrow – I'll make another one.

Shooting one last look at my cell, I creep out onto the landing. The moon hasn't grabbed this part of the house, so the floorboards blend into the blackness, surrounding me in tar. The windows stare at me like a thousand cameras, watching every move I make. I am so tempted to dance right now.

As I reach the top of the stairs, my hands lash out, grip the banister. It's so dark my primal fears are awakening. Being alone, alone in the dark. It's almost as horrible as being alone in that white room, with only wordless books for company. I turn the music up. I'm never going back to that room, never again. If I do, I won't be able to leave. Neither will Alice. Downstairs, the kitchen is bathed in a sliver of moon, so I skirt to the drawer. Oh hey, there is a spork. I knew we had one somewhere. I shuffle around amongst the cutlery, finally plucking out a dinner knife. The van lurches back to me, those men. Attacking me, pushing me back until I feel the cold slap of the syringe. I defend myself. I pull the trigger, even though I don't want to. Gripping the countertop, I stare out of the window, locking onto the curve of the moon until my heart slows. Alice is making me weak, school is making me weak. I can't afford to be weak. The knife sits happily between my thumb and forefinger, like an old friend. Sighing, I head out into the hall. Something creaks behind me, but I avoid the cliché of turning around. I'm not some chick from a horror movie, and if I was, I'd be the killer. That's what everyone thinks I am anyway. Why should I disagree when everyone is already decided? Wind rattles the hair on my neck, even though I don't remember leaving a window open. I'm still not going to turn around. By the time I head towards the stairs, the creaking stops.