13 Days

In the halls between classes, I am like Moses. It's funny because I'm not exactly religious.

The people in the hall, both students and teachers alike, make good time to get out of my path, parting like the sea. I don't even have to raise my hand.

I slam my locker door, groaning and shuddering from the force.

My glare sweeps over the halls. A couple of the students seem more frightened than usual. Am I honestly that menacing?

Maybe it's because they don't understand me. Or maybe it's because this fucking voice in my head won't stop making me paranoid. That's kind of infuriating me, too.

I take a seat in my English class. On the far left, in the back of the room. It's a window seat. Nobody really pays attention to me, not even the teacher, or at least they do a good job of hiding it if they pay attention. The buzz of the classroom chatter fills my ears, muffling my thoughts.

The classroom silences quickly as two people step to the front of the room. The teacher and a short girl with sandy hair and freckles. Nothing special really. But she is staring at me, only me, and my mind goes into overdrive. How can I keep her away? How can I show her that she's not supposed to be interested in me -- only scared?

The girl ends up sitting next to me. I didn't catch her name. I can almost feel her gaze burning through my head. I can hear her lean over, hands on her creaky desk. She whispers to me, "My name is Holli."

I ignore her. She seems hurt, and leans back as the teacher calls out to her.

As the class dragged on, I found that this girl sprung a memory deep from within my mind.

*****************************************************************

Mid morning sun gave a blush to my mother's otherwise colorless face.

Thirteen days ago had I turned six. Did I know why my mother was so cold, so motionless? No. I was still naive.

Nor did I understand why my dad had tears running down his face, or why he screamed at me to get away from her. All I wanted was to wake Mommy up to make breakfast.

He lost it after the ambulance came and left.

"You killed her," he told me, voice shaking with anger, a painful grip on my arms, "it's your fault."

He then pushed me to the ground, my head working with the floor to produce a sickening crack.

All I did was sit there and stare at my father. I dared to let out a whimper of "Daddy?"

His glare was filled with malice, and he sneered. "You know what? I'll let you live, you little monster. I'll let guilt eat away at your life, your soul, wait until you can't take it anymore. Try not to fall in love with yourself. You just might happen to do yourself in."

He left me alone, not physically, but emotionally. I had no one.

And then nine years later, he left me alone both ways.

*****************************************************************

I let a quiet moan slip past my lips, and ask to leave the class. The teacher "shoo"es me out of the classroom, probably thinking that I'd hurl, with the paleness of my face. I race out of the dark, castle-like academy.

I shove my hand into my pocket, and produce a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I hate these things, hate them with a passion, but when I tried one a while ago, I got hooked. Maybe this is what it feels like to love me.

I bring the cigarette to my lips and let it rest, bobbing as I fiddle with the lighter for a moment.

I flick the lighter on, watching the flame dance before my eyes for a moment, then I light the cancer-stick.

I inhale slowly, the smoke burning my throat like a flame. The pain is oddly satisfying, and the nag of the addiction vanishes. I must be a masochist. I'm addicted to killing myself slowly.

Seductive curls of smoke drift lazily from my open lips, inviting me to try again.

I bring the cigarette back to my lips.

...I am definitely a masochist.