Leaving

She stared at her door, her heart racing despite how still she sat on her bed. She could do this. She had to if she wanted to be happy. If she wanted to live. Making the decision, she got up, grabbed her backpack and messenger bag, and walked out the room. She saw the dull blue light of the television fill the living room and the hallway she was in. She walked slowly, careful not to make a sound. She could hear them. Their soft snores and the quiet chatter of some late night show. She quietly entered the living room and looked at her sleeping parents. Her father with his arm around her mother’s shoulders, their faces so much younger looking, the worry of the day slipping away as they slept. Looking at them, she thought that she could love them and that they could love her.

She knew better now. They couldn’t love her and she certainly couldn’t love them. She took a silent breath and walked out of the living room and into the front hall, her ears carefully trained on any sound from the living room. She walked right up to the front door and internally cheered as she turned the handle.

“And where do you think you’re going this late at night?” she froze as the cold steel of her father’s voice sliced through her relief, “Turn around Izzy and explain yourself.” despite herself, Izzy turned around, her face hot with anger and embarrassment.

“I’m leaving.” she said, looking directly into her father’s glare, open rebellion and hate present in her brown eyes.

“Ha, no you’re not.” Izzy’s stare caught her mother as she came into view, “Now close that door and get back to bed.” Her voice was covered in sugar but the threat was there and Izzy noted it.

“NO,” Izzy replied, clenching the hem of her jacket, “I am leaving and there’s nothing you can do.” she said resolutely. She began to back walk out the door when her father pulled a small handgun from behind him.

“Please, Isabell, just go to your room. We don’t want to hurt you.” her father pointed the gun at her head and clicked the bullet into place, “Please.”

“You can’t shoot me,” Izzy stared her parents down, “I know better. I know what I am and I know you can’t hurt me!” she shouted before sprinting out of the house. She ran to her car and unlocked it, thankful that the boy who she had met a few weeks ago helped her debug the whole car so they couldn’t trace her. She got in and started the car, pulling away just as her parents came out of the house, guns held in front of them. She saw them in her rear view mirror, staring after her as she drove off. Izzy knew that they still could have shot her from that distance, she wondered vaguely why they didn’t.

Mad

She thought she must have been insane to believe that he loved her. How could he love her? She was insufferable, ugly, rude, sarcastic, and annoying. No one could love her but her parents and even then that was a huge gamble. 

She thought he loved her, all of her and her crazy. She was wrong. He did not love her. He loved the idea of her that he had in his mind. When she couldn’t fulfill that idea he had, he threw her away. She knew it would happen, so she had tried desperately to fit into the idea of her that he had. She tried so hard but she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t do it anymore.

He broke her.

She had been so sure that no one would love her and then he came along and lifted her heart from the depths of her body. Then he suddenly ripped her heart from her chest and took it, never to give it back again. She had cried for days, everyone telling her that she would find another, that it would be better.

None of that helped. Sure, it would get better, but that’s in the future. She was here in the present and right now, she wanted it to stop. So she did just that. She wrapped her crazy and her secrets up inside of her and covered herself in armour so that she would never again be broken. 

She had been mad to believe he loved her. Now he’s going mad knowing that she’s fine.

Prepared (late post April 18th, 2013)

She was always told not to do this, to wait until marriage. If her mother knew she was doing this, she’d be disowned, humiliated, and hated. Her mother would hate her and her father wouldn’t be able to look her in the eyes. She ignored the bitter sting of tears and looked up at the nurse, nodding.

The nurse wrote some things down and got up, walking across the room to a set of drawers. Pulling a drawer out, she pulled out a twenty or so condoms, two pink cases, and little pink bags.  She got out a small brown paper bag and placed them in it.

She handed the bag to the girl, Are you sure you don’t need anything else? she nodded again, murmuring Thank you. before getting up. The nurse stopped her and gave her a card Feel free to call me if you need anything okay? I’ve seen girls like you who have no support come through here. The girl took the card and left.

She needed to be prepared. Even if her parents will hate her, she needed to be prepared.

Snowflake

Jacqueline watched her daughter from the bedroom window. She was outside playing in the snow and trying to catch snowflakes with her tongue. She smiled at the scene. She knew her husband was sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee, keeping careful eye on their girl. She felt it then.

The tickle at the back of her throat. She put her hand to her mouth and began to cough and hack. Her body shook with every cough, her throat ripping itself apart with every breath drawn. Then she could taste it. The metallic burn of blood. Once her body stopped shaking, Jacqueline pulled her hand away knowing full well that it would be slick with red. She wasn’t wrong.

She couldn’t take it. She began to sob and scream. She threw her weak fists at the windows and beat them. Each hit surely bruising her her delicate hands. She didn’t care. She beat at the window harder and harder, her hands screaming at her to stop. She didn’t. She screamed louder and louder until it was too much. She slumped against the side of her bed and pulled her knees up close to her and cried.

She crawled towards the window and looked back down at her little girl, undisturbed by the screaming, her little hands stretched out in front, still catching snowflakes.