Smiling at Everything

She lay on the carpet, shoulder length brown hair splayed around her, eyes directed to the white ceiling fan. As the ceiling fan turned, her eyes followed, trying to find a single blade in the spinning blur. The fan itself contrasted greatly with the room's midnight blue walls and ceiling, but matched with the pure white carpet and white bedroom furniture.

Downstairs, her parents were arguing. It wasn't abnormal for them to do so. They fought daily over anything and everything. She didn't care. She had no emotional connection to the arguing. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Besides her baby grand piano that sat in the middle of the living room and her electronic keyboard in the corner of her room. Music was the only thing that could keep her alive. In her sixteen years of life, it was the only thing that could keep her grounded.

Well, one of the only things.

Her parents' yells were unidentifiable, simply muffled spurts of anger. She knew she was probably the cause of this argument. Her report card had come in. The otherwise perfect list of grades was marred by the letter B next to her math class title. That was unacceptable according to her parents. They told her she wouldn't amount to anything with average grades.

But they didn't understand how hard it was for her. Focusing on anything was difficult. It wasn't always that way. She used to get perfect scores with ease. She used to be able to socialize without forcing herself to.

That was before seventh grade when it all started. It got worse during her freshman year. She was junior now, too deep in her problem to fix it.

She knew she should have told someone, anyone. It was just so hard. She couldn't talk about things like that. They were too serious. Serious was not part of her social vocabulary.

Amongst the unidentifiable yells, her name was yelled. She was right. They were yelling about her. Being an only child, it was bound to happen from time to time. Her parents didn't pamper her like some parents did when they only had one child. She was a mistake. She knew that. She was quite clear on that. Her mother never hesitated to tell her that. Her parents didn't want children. They were capable of having them but they never wanted one.

She didn't care. She looked at her parents with a feeling of indifference. Neither love nor hate was sent their way. In return, she received the same.

Indifference.

It was how she lived her life now. Nothing received an ounce of her care, except music. She threw her heart and soul into playing the piano and keyboard. Not even her friends mattered more to her than the instruments.

She acted like they did though. She was good at that.

The front door to the mansion opened and slammed shut. A car engine revved up and left the driveway. It was her father's Mercedez; she knew exactly how it sounded leaving and returning.

She got the feeling it wouldn't be returning this time.

Her mother's sobs reached her ears. Again, she had been right. Her father was the one to leave the house. If she cared more, she would have started crying too or gone downstairs to take care of her mother. But she didn't. She stayed staring at the rotating ceiling fan.

The cell phone on her desk vibrated. Her blue-grey eyes darted in the direction of the vibrating. She contemplated ignoring it but it was very possible that one of her friends was calling her. They would think something was wrong if she missed their call. She couldn't have that; they would pry into her life and they would find out her well-hidden secrets.

Or maybe she was paranoid.

She pushed herself up, walked the large expanse of her room from the middle of her floor to her desk, and picked up her phone. The name "Neon" flashed across the screen. She sighed. She honestly wasn't in the mood to pretend right now but she had to. A fake smile plastered itself on her face and she prepared her voice for a bright welcome. She answered the call, bringing the phone to her ear.

"Hello," she greeted, voice full of energy.

"Jazz, you're always so happy," the voice on the other end commented.

Jazz giggled. It was fake; she knew that. But the person on the other end didn't.

"I can't help it, Neon," Jazz replied.

"It's all those energy drinks. They're killing your brain, dork," Neon returned.

Jazz gasped, "Don't blame the energy drinks."

Neon laughed. Jazz knew her longtime friend had no idea how fake everything that came from her mouth was. Neon had no idea what was going on in Jazz's life. No one did.

"What did you need?" Jazz asked, still maintaining her bubbly demeanor.

"Band practice tonight. You coming?" Neon asked.

"For sure. Have I missed a band practice yet?"

"Sadly, no."

"Bitch," Jazz kept her tone light.

"Whore."

Jazz ignored the way her heart twisted. She would fix that ache once she was off the phone with her friend.

"So where is practice?" Jazz asked.

"Armand's house," Neon replied.

"Cool beans. I'll see you there."

"Okay. See you soon," Neon hung up.

Jazz placed her phone back on the desk, grabbing the bottom drawers handle and pulling it open. A stack of notebooks filled the confines of the drawer. She pulled the one from the top and flipped the cover open. From the manila pocket, she plucked a shining razor blade.

Only three things could ever help Jazz survive: music, caffeine, and razor blades.