Emma Writes

The Eyes Are the Windows to the Soul

2011-12-16T21:34:00.004-05:00

My heart beat fast against my chest as I passed the corner of the stony cold walls...

As soon as I woke up this morning, I could tell that sixteen wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Alright, so maybe my definition of “morning” was actually when the stars started peeking out from the ebony sky. But it was late August, with a beautiful diamond moon hanging low over the horizon, and the clock next to me spelled out 8:45.

I quickly threw on the clothes I’ve been saving for today, my very birthday. I was hoping everything would go exactly as planned.

I knew I would have to hurry; the party started at nine and was ten minutes away. I swabbed on some silvery eye makeup and yanked on my shortest shorts.

While I carefully drew on my eyeliner, I looked again at my eyes; a deep, stormy blue-green. But, for some reason, today they were a warm and glowing gold. I shook my head and tried to ignore it, but my hand was shaking when I set down the pencil.

Don’t be such a baby, I thought, chiding myself. You’re tired. That’s it. It’s not a big deal.

Trying to shake off the thoughts of paranoia, I skipped down the stairs and into the sticky summer air. I smiled in the face of a cool and crisp breeze.

My arms tingled as I walked through the concrete city, the streets lit by neon signs. Just pins and needles. I slept on them funny, that’s all, I thought, trying to calm the roiling in my stomach. But still, I could tell it was bigger than that, somehow.

My heart beat a little faster as my legs began to ache. I cursed inside my head as my breaths turned into rasps, and my heartbeats echoed against my eardrums.

I knew something weird was going on. I ran, fast as I could. I had to hide. Maybe, I could hide from this. Tears blurred my vision as I could barely feel my limbs anymore. What was happening? What was wrong with me?! I swallowed and my stomach fell to my shoes.

Quickly, I ran into the alley between 9^th Street Tattoos and Dave’s Quickie Liquor Mart. My legs felt like lead, and I fell to the ground, my heavy legs scraping on the cracked cement. My hands had felt worse than my legs, and they bled from my fall.

Pain racked my body. My ribs felt like they were cracking in two, and my arms and legs began to heat up and throb. I quivered in fear. Mascara clumps and fake eyelashes traveled down my cheeks as I cried. I closed my eyes, and silently begged the pain to end.

As suddenly as it began, it stopped. Slowly getting up onto my knees, I crawled to the nearest puddle. I felt... different. My face twitched, and I could swear the alley was narrower now than when I ran in seconds ago.

I fearfully looked inside the puddle, and couldn’t believe it when I found what was staring back.

I delicately tapped the puddle, doubting what was going on.

This is real, I thought, awestruck. I’m... this is me.

My eyes darted back to the puddle, and I knew for sure that they were my eyes; the golden, glowing eyes of a black panther.

A Different Project

2011-12-12T20:15:00.003-05:00

Hi! It's me-- yeah, I know, I haven't updated in a while. Mainly because I'm in a phase of writer's block. I am able to write things, but none of it is any good (Bah, humbug!). Part of it, however, is because I'm working on another project right now.
At school, we had to create a movie with seven captions and facts to address a social problem. We also were supposed to set it to music and analyze the song lyrics. I finished mine, and then the teacher of the class saw it and said it was good. Then he called home to say it was really, really good, and they were going to use it in the school's bullying cirriculum. So, to show off my *amazing and genius talentedness,* I'm going to post it here. :-) I hope you enjoy it!

PS- The asterisks are essentially the same thing as a sarcasm sign. :-) For all you Sheldons out there!

PPS- I claim no rights to the song "Skyscraper." Rights belong solely to artist Demi Lovato and her recording company.

Unloaded- Chapter One

2011-11-23T13:03:00.006-05:00

RICHARD LAUGHED WHEN I PULLED OUT THE GUN.

      “What is this, some sort of half-assed robbery?” he said, snickering.
      I glared at him, my hands itching to grab at his throat and choke his Spanish accent off of the face of the earth. I still had some things to learn, this being my first break-in, but he didn’t have to laugh. I mean, after all, everyone knows robbers always have guns on them.
      His brown eyes rushed through a rare moment of seriousness as his fingers quickly disassembled the pistol.
      “Listen,” he said, scooping out the bullets, “you never bring a loaded gun to a break-in. If you ever get caught on a job, and they find this on you, you probably aren’t even going to court. You’re permanently screwed.” He thrust the bullets into my hand, which I shoved into my sweatshirt pocket.
      “So how’s an empty one much better?” I retorted bitterly.
      “Listen, Harpy-”
      “Harper.”
      “Whatever. It’s because bullets mean you came to kill someone. No bullets means you just wanted to threaten them. Plus, if your finger slips and you pull the trigger, it’ll be hard to explain why you murdered someone. Which you can bet is not an easy thing to explain.”
      I tried to cover my face with my long brown hair in embarrassment. As much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. I quickly threw the bullets over the fence.
      “Let’s get started with this already,” I grumbled, lifting my hood.
      “Gladly,” he replied, doing the same.
      We walked up the pathway to the huge, brick tudor, the light from the moon illuminating our steps. My first house, I chanted to myself eagerly.
      When we reached the front door, Richard allowed me to pass through first. I swiftly pulled a bobby pin from my hair, and my overgrown bangs flooded over my eyes as I twisted, bent, and jimmied the barrette every which way I could. Finally, the soft, metallic click I had been waiting for hit my ears.
      “We’re in,” I whispered to Richard, who had been impatiently standing over my shoulder as I picked the lock.
      I crept inside as Richard stood in front of the open door, ready to shout if trouble was coming.
         The inside of the house was extraordinary. Beautiful paintings and portraits lined the walls, reflecting off of the rich hardwood floors. End tables were scattered about, topped with flowers and vases.
      A breeze wafted in and rustled the crystal chandelier. I snapped out of my dazed reverie and headed to the largest bouquet. With a swipe of my hand, I sent it crashing to the floor. I fished a couple glistening dollar coins from the potting soil, but I knew I would need more.
         My sneakers squeaked on the waxed wooden floor as I stepped into the living room. An ornate marble fireplace sought all attention, even from the chairs, which were all placed for a perfect view of the roaring fires that had so obviously taken place. I headed straight to the mantle, which held a large glass bowl. I stuck my hand inside, rewarding with a fistful of tens.
      Grinning, I took the bowl with both hands and ran through the house to the front door where Richard sat idly picking at his fingernails. I shoved the bowl in his face. “Jackpot!”
      Richard’s eyes widened as he looked inside. “Damn!” he exclaimed.
           I nodded excitedly. “There has to be at least two hundred in here!”
      “Maybe even three,” Richard said with a dreamy sigh.
      I snapped my fingers in front of his face, startling him from his daydream. “The Murphys are going to come home any second.” I reminded him. “Let’s get out of here and count it in the van.”
      “Right,” he replied, grabbing the bowl and running off. I rolled my eyes before closing the door and walking to the edge of the driveway.
         The back of the van was open, so I easily climbed inside before slamming the door shut. Richard crouched on the floor, meticulously counting out the bills and separating them.
      “Split fifty-fifty?” I asked, pointing to the two piles he had made. He nodded, but not before I saw him pocket an extra twenty. I reached over the backseat and grabbed my bag, sweeping all of the money from the pile closest to me inside.
      “One twenty for each of us, plus some random change,” Richard reported as he shrugged off his hoodie and jammed a baseball cap onto his head. I pulled off my own sweatshirt, and let my hair loose from its ponytail.              “Nice. Toss me the keys and I’ll drive,” I replied, hopping over the backseat.
      As soon as Richard threw the keys up to me, I turned them into the ignition. The car hummed and the headlights brightened, and I drove along the road in silence.
      Finally, the car rolled up to the intersection of Proctor and Dale and Richard said to stop. He jumped out the back, shoving a wallet in his pocket as he did.
      “How nice of you to thank me,” I grumbled, shifting the car into gear again and driving off in the direction of Dale Avenue.
      The trees hung low on the long, winding road. Swamp grasses spilled onto the cracked tarmac, and twisting driveways lead to large farmhouses, which topped high hills.
      A black mailbox loomed ahead. Automatically, I thought, 49. A sky-blue one followed in quick succession. 51. A chipped red one approached slowly and I smiled. Home, I thought, pulling into the driveway.

* * *

      I walked through the door, and immediately I could tell something was off. The mirror in the hall was hung askew and the doormat was strewn in the center of the floor. Nervously, I walked towards the kitchen. My heart skipped a beat when I opened the door.
      John lay in a pool of blood on the floor that clotted at his throat in an evil curve, the room filled with blood and it rose to my ankles as the sticky red liquid dragged me through the floor. It was dragging me down, pulling my head under, pulling me down until I grabbed to something, hanging on to it desperately until it dipped under the surface and to eye level. I gasped for air that wasn’t there, drowning, drowning, drowning in their blood, because I was looking straight in the eye of my dead child.
      My eyes flashed open and I sat upright in bed. The images flashed across my vision-- the deep pool, John’s limp body, and Aaron’s glassy eyes.
      It took a long time to fall back asleep.

A Magnetic Attraction: I Can't Stop Snuggly-Wugglying You!

2011-10-29T14:04:00.004-04:00

*Please note that this is a story mocking ridiculous, sappy, lovey-dovey smooshy-wooshy couples*

*In no way is this advice. If you consider it so, then please seek medical attention immediately.*

*You are probably a serial killer or something.*

Valeria and her boyfriend, Fabio, lay on their heart-shaped bed in each others' arms. Rose petals were scattered on the floor. The ceiling was actually a painting of the couple delicately embracing, while wearing angel wings and loincloths. The walls were embedded with Woohooium, which had wonderful luminous qualities when they turned the lights out and watched The Notebook or Dear John on the 78-inch plasma-screen television, mounted to the wall across the bed. Their pink door proclaimed "Snuggly Wugglying Room for Babycakes and Buttonface," in a curly, girlish script. This was slightly inaccurate, as Valeria and Fabio had many, many, many adorable and vomit-inducing pet names for each other, but there were too many to fit on the door, and several of them were long forgotten, so they settled simply and sappily on Babycakes and Buttonface.

It took them both months to pool their savings to buy this room, but in the end the two were deliriously and disgustingly overjoyed with it.They spent as much time as they could in that room, doing their "snuggly-wuggly," as it was dubbed. They snuggly-wugglied in their sleep, watching movies, with the lights off, with the lights on, while watching grass grow, cutting hair, tying bows, playing Truth or Dare... you name it, they snuggly-wugglied while they did it.

However, one of Valeria and Fabio's problems was that they never knew when to stop snuggly-wugglying. They were stuck like magnets. They never knew when enough was enough, because whenever one was not shnoodling up to the other, they were both in a random and ineffable state of nervousness. Perhaps they were afraid that the other might be snuggly-wugglying with another person while they were gone. Perhaps they were lonely. Nobody ever knew, because they were never away from their special heart-shaped bed long enough to ask them.

This was the current issue Valeria and Fabio were having. It was half-past seven, and none of them had gotten up yet that day to eat from their obsessive cuddling, so they were both rather starved. However, neither one wanted Valeria to leave so she could make her world-famous Chicken Wing on a Stick.

"Oh, Honeydove, I am so hungry!" Valeria complained, her stomach growling.

"I am too, Lovemuffin," Fabio replied, "I understand your pain. But you cannot get up yet, Snookumface! We still can snuggly-wuggly for a while longer."

"Oh yes, Dollyfingers," Valeria answered thoughtfully, "I suppose we could."

Seconds more of the ridiculous cuddling continued until Fabio's stomach grumbled.

"I ought to make you some Chicken Wing on a Stick, Fabikinnies," Valeria announced, making as though to get up.

"Oh, no, Candypie! I'm fine," Fabio rushedly said, embarrassed by his stomach growling.

"I don't know, Jellyface..."

"Really, Pumpkinsnake, it's fine."

"Are you sure, Pootchytums? It will only take a second--"

"NO, KOOTCHYKINS! I DON'T WANT YOU TO MAKE DINNER SIMPLY FOR MY SAKE!" Fabio cried, humiliated that Valeria would not let the matter go.

"Please, Fabby-wabby-linnie--"

"VALERWALERIE! I SAID NO AND I MEAN NO! CAN YOU NOT SEE THIS IS UPSETTING ME?!" Roared her boyfriend, who buried his face into the satiny pink pillowcase.

Valeria found tears in her eyes. She had not known how her insistence was affecting him. Fabio was a very sensitive man, and Valeria was ashamed that she had not respected his original wishes. She patted his soft hair as he cried his emotions out into the bedsheets.

"There, there, Sparkleface. It's okay. Shh, it's okay."

Fabio continued to cry until at last he lifted his tear-stained face, his light layer of pink eyeliner smudging his cheeks.

"Thank you, Fudgiecake. I...I'm sorry you had to see that."

"It's fine, Buttonface. I will go make Chicken Wing on a Stick and we can snuggly-wuggly afterwards, okay?"

Fabio nodded, his red and blotchy face turning back to its normal, tanned color. He should have known that whenever Valeria was around, things could be solved, and there would always be time for them to snuggly-wuggly.

It Doesn't Matter

2011-10-26T20:12:00.005-04:00

My shoulder strap dug into my arm and my Converse made deep imprints beneath the wet soil I walked on. My favorite black hoodie was weighted by the rain. I stuck my thumbs through some holes in the sleeves, attempting to block the breezes flowing through them.

The rain continued to fall in relentless sheets over my head, but I had grown used to the cold, the wet, and the otherwise unnerving. Trees carried the raindrops and cradled them in their darkening, dead leaves, before letting them fall down to the earth.

Mud was splattered across the toes of my sneakers, repressing the layer of Sharpie drawings underneath. I dug the heel into the earth, twisting it and watching the patterns splay out.

I stood with my arms folded behind my back, twisting my iPod’s cables in my fingers. I was where I meant to be, but not necessarily where I wanted to be. It was still sometimes painful to look.

I absentmindedly flipped my iPod on, and music flooded my ears. My shoulders fell a little, and I unclenched my jaw.

I tried so hard, and got so far.

I finally had the courage to lift my gaze upward. The ruins of an old farmhouse stood. Through the din of the storm, I swore I could hear the sweet sound of old wind chimes, rattling on the front porch. My heart skipped a beat, and I turned away.

The pain, the loss... it all came back.

“But in the end, it doesn’t even matter,” I sang. My eyes were wet, and my cheeks were red and soaked. The rain and cold, I thought, convincing myself. Just rain.

As I sang to myself, I opened my mind in a sort of meditative state. Music could transform me. It could take me from the tragic world we lived in, and it could help me... feel.

Despite my trying to hold them in, emotions came bubbling out. Everything I held back since my last visit here came out; rage and grief roiled my stomach, while depression tugged at my shoulders. Deathly screams echoed in my ears.

“Abby! Abby! Where are you?”

“Mom! I’m right here! Mom!”

This time I swallowed a salty tear.

The fire, the smoke; I could feel the heat on my face again, but when I opened my eyes, the only thing there was the rain. I tried to take a deep breath and calm down, but the damage had been done. The guilt was attacking me again. I remembered why I stayed away from here so long.

I felt as if the bottom dropped from my stomach. I sank down into the mud, not caring whether the stains would come out.

I deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve it.

I don’t deserve to even live.

My body shook with fear. I felt horrible, even now. I was a monstrous, awful human being. Awful, awful, awful.
That night, the night of the fire; I had snuck into the basement with my Camels and lighter, sneaking in a quick smoke before dinner. Right as the embers lit, I could hear someone coming down the stairs. Panicked, I tossed the cigarette to the other side of the room.

It was nearly slow motion when I realized what was happening. As it slowly sailed through the air, the burnt end caught on old, torn curtains from years ago. My hopes fell, and I knew what was happening. Smoke curled from the old, floral fabric, and I knew I had to get out.

Running from the house, fear coursed through me, until I realized that my family was still in the house. I ran back, screaming their names.

I could feel the heat from incredibly far away, but I kept running. I sprinted further when I heard their screams as the flames spread up the thick wooden sides. I ran, trying to make it to the porch, trying to get them out. But just before I got there, the roof collapsed above it all.

The last thing I could hear was my little sister’s scream.

A raindrop right on my eye woke me from the flashback. I shrieked, unable to cry anymore.

I had to fall, to lose it all.

I had since quit the cigarettes. But it was still the last thing I thought about before I went to sleep every night of every day.

Of course the first thing I thought of in the mornings was how many people I killed, so selfishly.

But in the end, it doesn’t even matter.

Stupid Cowards

2011-09-21T17:02:00.032-04:00

I stepped out of the grocery store as the crisp, autumn wind blew across my face. Carefully walking down the asphalt, which was in an utter state of disrepair, I searched the expansive, vacant parking lot for my Lincoln SUV. My heel bumped against a crumb of the road, which skittered a few feet in front of me. Suddenly, I stopped. I swore I had heard something. I shrugged it off and walked to the car again, albeit a bit more fearfully than before.
There. Again, the noise faintly hit my ears, but I knew I wasn’t imagining it. I quickly put my bags in the car and walked towards the source of the sound. The closer I crept towards the alley across the street, the clearer the noise became. The hair on my neck rose when I realized it was eerily similar to a scream.

When I arrived at the alley’s edge, I saw only a Dumpster. Exhaling a sigh of relief, I chalked the “noises” up to my overactive imagination. At least, I tried to. Another shriek escaped the depths within the alley, accompanied by loud yelling.

My heart pounded and I crept to the corner where the edge of the Dumpster met the corner of the wall, and peered through the small space.

“What do you think you’re doing, you nasty chi-”

I gasped before I could hear the rest of what he said, because I saw a hard, steel-tipped boot dig into the stomach of the defenseless woman.

“Please don’t,” she pleaded. “I beg you, I didn’t do anything!”

She screamed again as her head was shoved against the wall.

“I said shut up, you stupid Asian b**ch!”

My vision blurred, and my legs started twitching. I was scared. All I wanted to do was run, far away from this trouble. But I was frozen with fear into this place. I felt numb all over, and I could hear my heart beating every second.

I whimpered softly, afraid for the fear of myself and the poor woman. She looked over, a jagged cut over her right eye and purple bruise on her shoulder. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she whispered one word that only I could hear:

“Help.”

Like a greyhound at a gunshot, I ran. My legs pumped hard, and I concentrated on getting away. Get to my car faster than the thugs could realize that I had even been there.

My car was closer, so close, and I was almost there. I unlocked it and jumped in. Miscalculating the height, I slipped and fell on the road. I scrambled in, slamming the door and clicking the locks shut.

My blood began to boil, and I hit the steering wheel with my hand. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I hissed at myself, pounding the dashboard. “You stupid coward!”

I was so furious at myself, I could throw up. The poor woman in the alley, being beaten senseless for being Chinese-- and I was the one who was afraid.

She asked me for help! She looked me in the eye, blood coming down her face, and asked me to help her.

And what did I do? I thought, kicking my ankles. Nothing. Not. A freaking. Thing.

Fuming, I punched my mirror. A piece of glass splintered in my knuckle and I left it there. I remember why I deserved it when I barely covered up one of my own screams as I heard what sounded like a metal bat bounce off of some stone from the alley's direction.
That was it. I turned the ignition and sped through the intersection-- which I wasn't entirely sure was at a green light. Driven by my anger, I got the car right up next to the alley, and leaned on the horn with both hands. The loud noise echoed through the town. Rolling the windows down, I began to yell.
"You stupid thugs!" I screeched, watching their startled faces as I glared over the Dumpster. "Get the h*ll out of here before you start to regret it."
"Let's beat it," one of them muttered, before running off.
In a gentler voice, I called to the woman. "Are you okay?"
She didn't respond.
Gulping down my fear, I tried again. "Y...y-you alright?"
Nothing.
I climbed out, adrenaline rushing through me worse than before.
"Hey!" I shouted, trying to push through the wedge in the alley. "HEY!"
She said nothing, and I finally noticed her stomach lying still.
"Wake up!" I screamed desperately. "WAKE UP!!"
Tears ran over my cheeks and I swiped them away furiously, shouting again. "GET OVER HERE! TALK TO ME!"
Finally, I knew I had to give it up. This woman was gone, killed over nothing. I sobbed, my head between my knees. Teardrops splattered on the tarmac. I nearly watched this woman die. But I wasn't even brave enough to do that.

For the Best

2011-09-14T21:36:00.000-04:00

For the Best

My feet pounded up the new, wooden steps to 121 Reverie Boulevard. Before turning the doorknob, I turned and looked over every lawn’s perfect, green grasses, apple trees ready to be picked, and spotless flowerbeds. Not a pansy out of place, I thought mirthlessly.

I twisted the doorknob, listening to the small click as the front door unlocked and swept wide open across the chestnut floor of our small lobby, where my mother sat with a magazine in hand.

“Hey, Allie,” she chirped, throwing her magazines on the coffee table.

“Hi Mom,” I mumbled, making my way to the stairs.

“Wait,” she said, “I have a question for you, Allie.”

I stopped in my tracks, and fear pulsed through me. Did she know? How could she? She couldn’t; but what if she did? What if she found--

“How was the first day of school?”

Relief flooded through me. “Fine,” I choked out. It’s for the best, I reassuringly thought to myself before I fled the hallway and into my room.

I collapsed across the soft pillows shoved in the corner, mascara-stained tears already running down my cheeks. Because the first day of school was not fine. It was torture.

I could remember the teasing following me through the halls, haunting me.

Loser!

Retard!

Stupid!

Insults thrown at me, but even worse were the snippets of rumors I heard as I passed.

She’s so ugly!

She has, like, NO friends, because she’s such a gossip.

I reached behind one of the pillows I was laying on, until finally the warm, molded plastic handle was secured in my palm.

I turned my wrist upward, and hovered the blade over my vulnerable blue vein, as thoughts raced through my mind.

-No.

Do it!

-Don’t!

Are you some good-girl puppet? Show you have any backbone at all!

Any thoughts after that were drowned out, as I quickly slashed the razor across my wrist and blood dribbled over my arm.

The cut stung as salty tears dropped over it, diluting and spreading the blood. I slit the vein again, and my fingernails had a reddish tinge on the lunula.

Suddenly, like a blow to the chest, I had a flashback.

It was five years ago, when I was nine years old. The sky was a brilliant, shining blue. The sun warmed my back and shoulders, and shined on the dewdrops on the vibrant, green grass. Puffy white clouds dotted the sky.

It was a perfect day, and worn leather football spiraled cleanly through the air in a smooth arc.

The day I learned to throw a football, I realized. Over at the other end of the yard was a blonde girl in a striped t-shirt, her bangs slick over her forehead but her cheeks flushed with pride. That’s me, I thought, awestruck.

I was so young, but so happy, and so carefree. I was still ignored for being so shy, and mocked for being so smart. But I didn’t care. And why would I? I liked myself, and that was all that mattered.

I blinked, and I saw myself in my floor-length mirror with mascara tears and marred wrists.

I threw the razor across the room, and folded my arms.

Have some backbone!

Forever Missed

2011-09-03T16:30:00.001-04:00

I woke in a hospital chair that covered in plastic that clung to my thighs. Tugging down my denim shorts, I quickly glanced around the room. A digital clock read “4 AM” in dim, hard-to-read numbers. Shoving my feet in my sandals, I tiptoed over to the sterile, white bed in the middle of the room. In between the sheets lay my best friend, Adam. Machines read his pulse, blinking in near-perfect synchronization with his raspy breaths. My heart ached for every wheeze. It sounds like he’s dying inside, I thought somberly, a tear slipping down my cheek.

I heard a groan as Adam rolled over. His black bangs drooped over his eyes, but I kept my hands at my side. I was fearful of the shiny, pink, too-tight scar tissue under it.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice cracking.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he huffed, flopping over to his stomach.

“I know.”

Silence passed between us, broken by the punctuated tones of the EKG.

“Perseid shower tonight,” he finally said, his voice rasping. Every scratchy breath was like a stab in the heart.

“Yeah.” I looked out of the small window in the corner of the room, streaming in moonlight.

“Let’s see it,” he replied, smiling.

“Through that stupid little window?”

“Outside.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. His wheezing breaths, sleepless eyes, and pale skin were obviously something that belonged here, in the safety of the hospital.

But how much longer could I take in the miniature room? How many more breaths, sounding as horrible as tabooed nails on a chalkboard? How many more stares from glassy eyes that will never be the same?

Silently, I pulled the wires from him, and his face broke out in a grin long forgotten.

I helped him from his bed onto his crutches, which we finally maneuvered down the stairs after long minutes of trial and error, down to the lobby.

The security guard was asleep by the elevator, and the receptionist was painting her nails a startling pink while carefully leafing through last month’s Lucky. It’s almost too easy, I thought to myself as we snuck through the doors.

The night air was refreshing and cool. The sky was dark and heavy, sprinkled with stars and a thin crescent moon. Meteors streaked across the midnight-black canvas.

“Look,” I whispered, pointing to the fading meteor.

“Wow,” he whispered, transfixed.

We sat in the grass, watching stars shooting across, for hours.

The sky began to lighten, and rays of the sun crept behind the trees on the horizon.

“Ciara,” he said, his voice cutting out like static.

“Yes?” I replied, watching oranges and pinks infect the otherwise impeccably blue sky.

“I’ll miss you.” It sounded like sandpaper was rubbing against Adam’s throat as he breathed in and out.

“What?” I asked, worried, looking into his eyes, glazed with pain.

“Goodbye, Ciara.” He finally murmured. Adam’s voice dropped off and his hand felt cold.

“What?” I repeated. It was too horrible to be true. “No. No, no!”

“Adam!” I shrieked, desperate. “Adam, come back! No!”

The world was beyond me as I pleaded, and hurt resonated so strongly I felt numb and emotionless at the same time in a possible, impossible combination. There was a me, screaming at the sky, begging for my friend. But there was a different me. I had discovered and hidden away inside a safe niche inside myself, closing off everything. I locked the door behind me and threw away the key. It was secure in there, and nobody could hurt me anymore. And soon the ache from Adam dying left, leaving nothing but a cold body where he used to be.

* * *

It was August, and my bangs stuck to my forehead as I wobbled across the cobblestone path and through the wrought-iron gate. Deep inside, in the locked room where I lived now, I registered this as a cemetery.

The champagne bottle sprouted little dewdrops, weakening the grip my fingers held to it. The glasses in my hand felt cool against my skin, but made a rough scraping noise as I set them on the headstone.

R.I.P.

Adam Hawthorne

Forever Missed

I poured some champagne from the slick bottle in each glass. Lifting one to me lips, I sipped the bitter, bubbly alcohol. It kept me from talking, which was fine by me, as I had nothing to say.

When I had downed the glass, I paused, and shifted from foot to foot.

“Hi,” I muttered, staring at my shoes.

The leaves on the trees all whispered to each other in the breeze. I peeked out of the window from my hiding spot. Anger simmered under my skin, but I swallowed it down.

“Um...” The trees shook again, this time their branches rattling together. Rage boiled through me, and nothing could hold it back. I had broken out of my spot, and my feelings ran free. Anger, sadness, denial—everything that I held back these months bubbled ten times over and I could not take it.

Screaming, I swiped the champagne bottle off of the grave, and it shattered against the ground. “You were my friend!” I cried in anguish. “I trusted you! You were never supposed to hurt me!”

It wasn’t enough, in any way. Someone had to be punished, somehow, but I didn’t know who. Adam. He deserves to feel what he made me go through. I screeched at the grave, and threw his champagne flute at it. A satisfying clink resonated through the graveyard as it shattered against the granite. “I hate you! You promised! You were never supposed to hurt me! I HATE you! I am so happy you are dead!” I yelled, salty tears pouring over my cheeks.

Adam. He had paid. He paid enough, when I realized he had seen me suffer. Who got the revenge?

Who?

I knew who it had to be when I took the glass in my fist and smashed it against his epitaph. I had taken him from the safety of his hospital bed, I remembered as I pounded the stone with the glass. I hadn’t reminded him to take his medicine often enough, I thought as the glass splintered into my hand. I let him die right next to me, I realized as the champagne flowed into my cuts and stung my fingers. “I did this!” I shouted as the flute showered onto the ground.

“I’m sorry!” I cried, now collapsing onto my back.

The trees followed the wind again, and I could hear them now.

Thank you, Ciara, the leaves whispered, for the best dying day anyone could have. I’ll see you soon.

My eyes begged to cry, but I was all out of tears at the moment. “Thank you,” I whispered, “thank you so much.”

Nothing is Certain

2011-08-15T17:32:00.004-04:00

I ran down the slippery road, rain slapping hard on my back in thick sheets. My bare feet pounded theough asphalt, tearing away skin from my soles. But I was too preoccupied to care.

I could hear them behind me, racing through the streets. My heart was beating faster, and my side started to constrict. I turned off the road sharply, into a thin strip of wilderness. Mud splattered behind me, and I stumbled over brambles and twigs as I tried to outrun the ones behind me. My black hair provided cover in the night, a single advantage to this battle. I could almost feel my enemy’s breath on my neck. Not fast enough, I thought painfully, not fast enough.

They were going to catch me, and I could tell. I dove into some bushes, the branches catching on my legs and arms, and sank into the dirt. Earth, dirt and leaves surrounded me, and memories rushed back at me.

The first was of Ethan.

It was autumn again, when branches released beautiful golden leaves and pine needles coated the grass in a lush carpet. The dawn sky was pink, the clouds orange and the fading moon blue. The colors were intoxicating, and everything was beautiful.

I felt a pat on my head that nearly didn’t register, and my heart skipped a beat when I looked up. Ethan, with his blond hair and freckled skin, was staring back at me.

“It’s great, isn’t it, Riley?” He whispered, almost as if the moment were too fragile to speak loudly about.

It is, I thought. It really is.

My thoughts were stopped short when a low, rasping cough came from Ethan. He coughed for a few minutes before coming back to breathe. My eyes watered—pain radiated from him in waves, and it hurt me to watch. He smiled like nothing was wrong, but something told me he was hurting inside.

The moment faded, giving away to the next.

It was winter now, but a year later. Snow had clearly previously packed the ground, but now it was melting, mixing with the dirt and making an ugly mess. The sky was gray, and the weather was a biting and harsh cold. I was at the feet of Dad, who was sitting across from Mom. The expressions on their faces were serious, and their tones were cold and hopeless.

“They can’t fire you,” she said, staring at her feet. “You’ve worked there for twenty years. In this economy, you’re their best hope.” Her lip quivered, and she blinked rapidly to keep back tears.

“I know, Eliza.” Dad said, his eyes bleak, “but we’re the smallest division in the state.”

“I suppose you’re right. Nothing is certain but death and taxes, after all,” she replied bitterly.

Nothing is certain but death and taxes. A morbid, cutting phrase, like a kick to the ribs, weighted from the true meaning behind it.

Winter turned to spring, with dandelions and pansies poking through the grass and the sky shining a brilliant turquoise.

But behind the front door, it wasn’t nearly as pleasant.

Ethan was at home today, as he had been all month, connected to wires and cables. His hair was gone, and his arms were dotted with vaccines. Pill bottles flooded his bedside table. My heart ached to look into his room, but I knew he needed me.

The house was empty, save for a nurse and I. The nurse had said a familiar environment might cure Ethan. Every day, when I woke up at his feet, was another painful day ahead of us. I could feel his resolve weaken, and each time my heart panged more and more.

I was lounged at the foot of Ethan’s cot, listening to the beeping machines around me. What I wanted to do was lunge at them and tear out the wires with my teeth. With each beep, I was taunted by the fact that I may never get my best friend back.

But the biggest shock of my life came next.

Everything—

And nothing.

Nothing and everything all happened at once. Some machines whirred to life and others did nothing at all. I barked at a monitor connected to his chest, which was blank. The nurse flipped switches and pressed buttons frantically.

I jumped onto the flimsy bed and barked more, at an empty face with half-closed eyes.

But even I knew it was too late.

I watched myself, from a different realm. What I did suddenly seemed beyond me. It felt agonizing, and it was worse than death. No matter how far I could run from it, it would never be far enough.

I realized later that’s what happens when your best friend dies. I also realized it’s part of a bitter irony. Nothing is certain but death and taxes.

They never explained who the death belonged to.

My tail twitched and shook the bushes I was hidden inside, startling me from my reverie. My stomach growled; it was as empty as my heart. I heard the dogs baying in the distance. They still wanted revenge for the stolen scraps. They clearly aren’t even worth the fight, I thought resentfully, as my stomach growled yet again. I regretted running away from home. All I could think of were the big, juicy chicken legs Mom would sneak me while she was cooking.

I shook my head, reminding me of the situation I was in. I ran out of the bushes, mud splattering behind me. The distant howls became closer and closer. Sprinting between trees and leaping over rocks, my hope soared. It could have been possible that I actually had the upper hand.

But then I felt a rough, stony ground beneath me. I turned to see bright, white lights.

The impact was huge. I heard a low crack as the car crashed into my ribs, and blood poured from my stomach as I lay, immobile, on the road. My ear was pressed to the pavement, and my heartbeat resonated in my ears.

Until all I heard was silence.

I woke up in a long, white tunnel. The floor was smooth and shiny, but walking on it, it was impossibly soft. A huge gateway stood close in front of me.

On the other side was Ethan.

The real Ethan, my best friend, who I never thought I’d see again.

But then again, nothing in life is certain but death and taxes.

Rose

2011-08-04T19:37:00.000-04:00

I trudged along the scorching-hot asphalt to my ’99 Corolla, as the afternoon sun beat down on me. I dug my hand inside my bag, searching for my keys. When I lifted it out, all I came up with was a handful of sticky quarters.

“I don’t have the time for this,” I grumbled, dumping the contents of my purse onto the empty parking space beside me. Plucking my keys from the very top of the pile, I stuck them in the lock and popped the door open. When I managed to finally shove all of the trash back into my purse, I threw it onto the passenger seat before jumping inside myself.

In a single fluid movement, I slammed the door closed, jammed the key in the ignition, opened the window, and turned the AC as high as it would go. Picking up my laptop from the backseat, I Mapquested the address Jean sent me. It was thirty miles away. Great. Especially considering my car took twenty miles per gallon and I had to take an interstate nearly the entire way.

I turned out of the parking lot and started down the road, leaving behind the pizza place where I had run in to for lunch. Suddenly, my car stalled. I pressed the gas pedal, but no dice. After five minutes of easing my car to the side of the road, I checked the gas meter. Maybe E stands for “extra gas”? I thought hopefully. I stomped again on the pedal.

I slammed my head on the steering wheel. “Not today!” I groaned. Today my cousin Jean was trying on wedding dresses. I needed to be there in twenty minutes. I sighed, and checked the reception on my cell phone; no bars at all.

Climbing out of the car and back into the balmy heat, I rushed up the overgrown pathway of the first house I came to: a pink bungalow. The color of love, I thought randomly. Shaking my head, I knocked on the door. No answer. Finally, in desperate need of a phone, I barged inside.

I stepped into the hallway, which seemed in perfect order. This is way too creepy, I thought. Part of me wanted to bolt right out of there and go to another house. But the rest of me wanted to venture in deeper.

I pushed open a door, which lead to an old, cheap-looking kitchen. The only tables and counters were made of Formica, and all the chairs were plastic. I pulled the refrigerator door open; it was both empty and warm. For some reason, I thought I could hear a small cry. All thoughts of Jean’s dress fitting vanished from my mind as I headed in towards what I assumed was a living room.

What I stepped in was not a living room; it was wallpapered pink, and carpeted white. A lone toy box sat on the floor, and in the far corner, was a crib.

More to the point, there was a crib, and inside it was a red-faced baby, dressed in stained clothes, wailing in a tired, scratchy voice.

I swiped the bottle of formula from the dresser beside the crib, holding it to the baby’s open mouth. She put her hands on the outside and drained it within seconds.

As I set the bottle back on the dresser, I noticed a crumpled paper on the floor. I picked it up and unfolded it, to see it was a note written in a childish scrawl.

“My name is Jodi and I’m 18. My boyfriend and I had this baby. My mom kicked me out ‘cause I’m not responsible so I moved in with Ryan at his house. Even though we both dropped out of school at 17, we are actually really mature and we lived perfectly on our own. Ryan got a job managing a store and I could stay home with the baby all day. But one day Ryan and I got in a fight about whether or not we could afford college. He kept trying to convince me my life was with Rose--”

Rose, I thought to myself. Baby Rose. I turned the scrap over to reveal even more writing on than the first side, blurred by drops of water.

“--but I wanted to finish school. He got so mad he took our car and drove to the theater. After two and a half hours I got a little worried, but I was still kind of mad so I didn’t do anything. After three hours, I got more worried, but I thought the movie started late so I didn’t call. After four hours, I called him. He didn’t pick up. I dialed the police station, and they said they’d check my house in thirty hours to see if they could help, because he could have checked into a hotel. They also said to call immediately if I had proof he was in danger. I got angry, so I walked around town with Rose hoping to find him. We found him. The car was in a wreck on a back road. He was dead for four hours; he didn’t even make it to the theater. Now I am writing this, and I have a gun aimed at my head. I will shoot myself away from Rose, right next to Ryan, so that the house wouldn’t smell. Tell Rose her mom and dad loved her. Jodi.”

The date and time was written under her name. Jodi killed herself twenty hours ago.

Tears ran down my face as I cradled Rose in my arms, stroking her hair. I walked from room to room, not sure what to do, until I found Ryan and Jodi’s room. On the center of the bed was an empty box, surrounded by papers.

The first document I picked up was a birth certificate, signed for Rose Belle Wilson, born January 19th. I calculated in my head; Rose was seven months old. I stroked the wispy blonde hair she was just beginning to grow.

I had no idea what to do. Should I wait with her until the police come in ten hours? Do I take her home and call the police myself? Should I take the telephone and call for a cab as I originally planned?

I took the landline and dialed the only person who I knew would be able to think levelly in this situation.

“Tara? Where are you? I’m in the dressing room and I got a gorgeous dress and you must see it now!

I smiled. “Hey, Jean. You are not going to believe what I have to tell you.”

* * *

I exhaled, having finished the entire story, which included reading her the note. “So... what should I do, Jean?”

She paused. “Stay there and call the police. They’ll find a home for her or something.”

I smiled. “Okay, thanks. I’ll let you try on those dresses. Later!”

“Bye,” she said, before a beep went off and she hung up.

I cradled Rose in my arms, with the phone held between my shoulder and my ear. I let the child on the floor and called the police on the phone.

The ringing stopped for a moment, and someone snapped, “Hello?”

“Hi,” I said, swallowing nervously. “I’m on Thatcher Street, and... something really weird happened.”

“That’s great, now do I need to send a dispatch or not?” He retorted.

Well then, I thought, slightly offended. “I don’t know, there’s a baby here all alone.”

I heard a pen scribbling in the background. “Where are the parents?” He inquired, intrigued.

“Dead.”

More scribbling-- I could also hear the faint static of an intercom. “We are tracing this landline back to the location and sending some officers over. Stay there with the child so we can conduct investigation.”

I was slightly confused as to why they needed to investigate, but said “okay” and hung up anyway.

In fifteen minutes, two police cars were parked at the front of the house. I saw them standing with a notepad in front of their cars, jotting something down in Sharpie. Suddenly, I realized what it was.

“Hey!” I cried frantically. “Stop! That’s my car!”

Embarrassed, the officers quickly crumpled the hundred-dollar-ticket and threw it in their open windows.

“Let’s go inside,” one of them said. He was a tall man with brown hair and fair skin, which was blushing a dark red. We all agreed, readily escaping the baking heat.

Pushing open the door, I directed them down the hallway to Rose’s nursery.

The other officer, a skinny redhead, jumped right to the investigation.

“How did you find the baby?”

“Where was the note?”

“Can you show it to us?”

“Where are the child’s documents?”

I went along and answered her every question. At last, she fell silent, out of anything to say. The tension in the air was thick, until I finally blurted out, “So who will take care of Rose?”

The room was quiet again, the question squeezing all the air from the room. The ceiling began to shrink, and I felt half my size. My head felt heavy and my legs were weak. I knew what her answer was going to be before she could say it.

“There could be a foster home,” she replied uncertainly. All I could think of was Rose, bouncing from home to home, never knowing her mother. She would never know if someone loved her, and my knees began to shake just thinking of it.

“I will take her,” I mumbled. From the crook of my elbow, she looked around at the unfamiliar faces and cooed joyfully.

“Okay,” the policewoman said, “we’ll make some calls and ask you to come when the paperwork is ready.”

I nodded, my knees no longer shaking and the ceiling the same as it was before.

The police left, but I stayed for a moment to gather her things. Finally, with everything packed into the car, I set the baby on my lap and twisted my key in the ignition. My car gave a cough, then a final shudder, before falling silent again. Rose giggled at nothing in particular, and I looked down to her perfect face.

Rose, I thought, the color of love.

Perfection- Chapter Three

2011-07-24T21:56:00.000-04:00

*Chapter Three*

The next morning was a sleepy Thursday. I felt guilty still about eating lunch and dinner yesterday. It made me feel huge-- nine-month-pregnant huge. I skipped out on breakfast again, but after yesterday’s near-disaster on the bike, I took a shot on the school bus.
As always, it was loud and smelled like a diesel station. I searched the row of heads until I found the brunette. When I did, I tapped her on the head.
Izobel darted her eyes up and smiled. She was always useful for a spare seat and a voice to talk to, whenever you managed to say something.
“Hey, Iz,” I interrupted as she stopped for a breath, during an epic recount of How Much I Hate Math Homework. “Did you say something about your cousin?”
She nodded, looking slightly apprehensive.
“Isn’t she really skinny?”
Her eyes widened with tales. “Ohmygod, yes. She eats maybe one plate a day... and she throws it all up right after! Like this one time...”
Izobel’s voice dwindled away in my mind. I had a new plan.

• • •

“I am starving,” I boasted at lunch.
“I know,” Gabby said, look a bit pensive.
I could tell she still remembered yesterday--and so did I. Today, feeling very good about myself, I picked a cheeseburger, with ketchup, mustard and pickles, not to mention cross-cut fries on the side.
Izobel had saved seats at the same table in the corner of the lunch room. As soon as we sat down I dug into my lunch, taking huge bites of the tender burger. It was the onset of my previous anorexic age. I was stopping that. I was no longer going to completely starve myself.
Gabby watched me warily the whole time. She had the day before in mind, but so did I, and I dipped my cross-cuts in a sweet, ketchupy mud.
Eventually there was nothing for Gabby to hawk-eye on my tray, and she had her own food to deal with. She devoured the half of her lunch still left quickly, washing it down with water.
The bell rang, and we had ten minutes to get to class. Plenty of time, I thought to myself. I picked up my books from the table and patted my pocket for my brown eyeliner pencil.
Leaving behind Gabby and Izobel, I ran off to the girl’s bathroom and locked myself into a stall. I dropped my books on to the floor as quietly as possible, except for the eyeliner pencil.
I took the unsharpened end, which was warm from my hands. I leaned over the toilet, I tapped the very back of my tongue tentatively with the pencil. I could feel the warm bile rushing up the back of my throat. I took out the pencil and spat my lunch in the toilet. The five-minute bell, bane of my existence, rang out through the halls. I scooped up my books and took a quick sip from the water fountain, feeling good and skinny, as I ran to my next class.
For the next two classes, I felt very confident in myself. But when I sat with Izobel on the bus, all that energy drained in a single sentence.
“Hey,” she started, getting my attention. “Where were you after lunch?”
I paused. If I told her the truth, she would sic Gabby onto me. To be honest, I was a bit afraid of that.
On the other hand, I would feel horrible lying to her. Izobel could definitely talk the wind from a hurricane, and had about the sense of humor as a first-grader, but she had a sort of rare innocence that made her flaws disappear.
In the split-second I had, I blurted out, “I needed to return a book.”
“A book?” Izobel said. She was not falling for this; I never was a big reader. “What book, exactly?”
Thinking on my feet, I replied, “a book for an English project.”
She nodded with understanding, and I smiled back half-heartedly. My stomach twisted in guilt.
Don’t feel bad, I soothingly told myself. It’s for the greater good.
A different thought fleetingly crossed my mind: If lying to people is the way to get there, it can’t be much greater.

• • •

At six that night, Mom beckoned me to dinner with a light meal of pasta with garlic butter. I slid down the stair rail, which made her cringe.
She rubbed her temples. “Siovhan, I cook and clean for you all day. Can you please help me in the slightest by not streaking mud from your boots on the banister?”
I groaned and sat at the table. “Olivia--”
“Siovhan!” She said, sternly.
“Mom,” I corrected, defeatedly, “the banister is my last shot of rebellion in this house. One day, when I’m nineteen and in college, you’ll miss cleaning the shoe grime from there.”
Mom laughed. Sadie finally thought to join us, running down the stairs and using the handrail to balance herself on the way down. My lip quivered with what I knew would happen next.
“SIOVHAN!” She screeched, her hands covered in shoe-grit. I burst out in giggles.
Mom rolled her eyes, smiling. “Wash your hands, Sadie, and come join us for dinner.”
Dad woke from his nap on the sofa (“I really deserve a minute of sleeping, considering I provide for everything around here!”) and sat at the dinner table.
I smiled. We were never the tall family, or the family with pretty teeth, but the one thing was we all got along well.

• • •

The trip to the restroom became a habit for me after lunch, so on Saturday at noon I was met with a problem.
I had skipped breakfast as usual and had made up for it with some leftover chicken soup made the night before. But now I had no place to get rid of the weight in my stomach.
I didn’t want to be unhealthy. But I knew nobody was going to support my dieting. I was crossed between being healthy and being heard.
Pushing back my chair, I headed to the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush. It’s okay, Mom and Dad aren’t home, I thought, trying to reassure myself. I tapped my throat with the hard, plastic back, feeling the broth travel up my throat. I dropped the brush on the counter so it wouldn’t get dirty and I vomited in the toilet. Nobody seemed to hear, so I vomited over and over and over.
I pressed my throat a final time and threw up yellow acid.
Closing the bathroom door, I headed downstairs into the laundry room.
I tiptoed down the steps. I silently cursed when I noticed Sadie standing in the hallway, frozen and startled. I cursed under my breath. What if she had heard me?
Finally, I had the courage to say, “What’s up, Sadie?”
“A spider was on the wall,” she said, in a small, fearful voice.
“Where’d it go?” I replied, laughing.
She shrugged, to which I gave her a hug. “Sadie, the spider won’t hurt you, okay? It’s just a bug.”
“A creepy one,” she muttered.
I released her and set off down the hallway. I pushed the door open and climbed onto the machine, heaving my laptop from the plywood shelves. But no matter what keys I pressed or websites I selected, the only thing on my mind was my empty stomach. It growled in my ears, and rattled my thoughts.
I jumped down from the washing machine and ran to the refrigerator. I whipped out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, forcing it down my throat.
It wasn’t enough. I grabbed a slice of frozen pizza, jamming it into my mouth.
I was starving still-- I cradled a container of chocolate ice cream, and dug my spoon inside, carving away at it. I could feel the icy cold ringing my mouth, but I was desperate.
Finally, I put my spoon on the counter. The ice cream bucket, which was half-full nearly a second ago, was empty, except for the few marks on the inside.
A wave of guilt hit me. I ate a half of a tub of ice cream. What had gotten into me? Stupid, fat, ugly slob.
I ran back upstairs, nearly in tears, and slammed closed the bathroom door. I pushed my jelly-covered finger to the back of my tongue, and pressed on my throat. Food that had been so appealing thirty minutes ago bubbled out, into the toilet. Waves of my breath came up, and my eyes watered.
I collapsed backwards onto the floor, an emotional wreck. What was I getting myself into? I was in a cycle of never-ending torture. Nothing I did would please myself now. I screamed, not caring if Sadie heard, banging my fists on the tile. I felt like I was five again, but I could care less.
My pounding lead to a small clatter at the edge of my foot. I stopped my wailing to see what it was; a razor blade Dad had left out this morning. I grabbed it, and slashed it sideways across my calf. I cried out in pain, as blood beaded from the cut. I threw the razor into the sink, silently swearing to myself that I would never do that ever again.

Perfection- Chapter Two

2011-07-20T12:48:00.000-04:00

*Chapter Two*

I woke at midnight with a furious claw in my gut. I gasped at the pain. It felt like somebody had slashed my stomach with a knife. I quickly adverted my eyes to the window. They were still locked. My closet was still open. But the pain in my abdomen wasn’t imagined. It was crippling. I heaved in. What had I done?
I wasn’t sick. This wouldn’t happen when I was sick.
I wasn’t hurt.
Suddenly, I remembered. I hadn’t eaten since . . .
When had I last eaten? It dawned on me I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday at school . . . at 11:30. I hadn’t eaten in twelve and a half hours. And now I paid the price. A hard bargain.

With pain comes beauty, I thought halfheartedly. I tried to push myself out of bed. I was so unbelievably starving I barely could. But with a shove, I rolled myself off the mattress. Thud.
Cringing at the noise, I silently told myself to cut the drama and stand up already. I walked down the stairs to the kitchen and poured some cereal. They were the most delicious, gorgeous Cheerios I’d tasted in my life. I slurped down spoonfuls of the oats, and drank the milk. They filled the empty pit in my stomach with a warm fullness. I walked up stairs, rejuvenated, but still bone-tired. My head hit the pillow and I was out immediately.

• • •

My alarm buzzed at my side. It was 6 AM, and time for school. I groaned. After the midnight adventure I had, I kept convincing myself that the hunger wasn’t that bad, so I decided to skip breakfast, too.
After I slipped on some new clothes-- a red pullover hoodie, dark acid wash skinny jeans, and some black Converse-- I pulled my hair into a messy side braid. I thought it looked good. I applied some brown mascara and electric pink eyeliner. Throwing a canvas messenger bag over my shoulder I ran down the stairs to the kitchen. I instinctively reached for a glass of juice, but I pulled my hand back. Diet, I thought as hard as I could. Instead, I rushed out the door. I was about twenty minutes early. I took out my bike from the garage, situated my bag on my lap, and pedaled down the driveway. I had ridden to a friend’s house down the street last week, but school was a mile away. I would definitely get some exercise from it.
The farther down the street I got, the more tired I realized I was. I began to regret skipping breakfast; but I then imagined how beautiful I could look. I pedaled harder.
I slipped my phone from my bag and texted my mom I was biking to school instead of the bus, looking up every two seconds. A car either decided it wasn’t a good idea for me to do that or they weren’t exactly “sober.”
The key moment when I realized that was as they drove halfway up the sidewalk. I freaked out, putting my phone in my pocket, which wobbled the front tire. My bike shook as I stored my phone away, tried to avoid the car, and tried to get to school on time. They finally took a hint and rode away. I was tempted to fire the one-fingered salute, but my patience got the best of me and I only stuck my tongue out.
Ten uneventful (thankfully!) minutes later, I had arrived to school, exhausted. I thanked the cold air for preventing me from sweating. I spritzed some extra perfume on anyway-- just in case.
Anybody to arrive to school early has to go to their homerooms. Hitching my bag higher up on my shoulder, I headed to Ms. King’s eighth-grade Honors English class. I pushed my bag into my locker; yes, it was against the rules, but I was five minutes ahead of when I expected to be here. I didn’t think anybody would truly care.
The best thing about Ms. King’s classroom was that she had a lounge in the back of the room with a rug and beanbag chairs. Her excuse was that we could get started on our next reading assignments after we finished our work, but why would she stock the shelves with books we had never been expected to read? I didn’t care at the moment. I flopped onto the comfiest beanbag. It was so luxurious... I could feel the soft fabric on me, and it felt so nice. I could take a nap right there. It was just so...
I dozed off before I could finish the thought.
A loud bell woke me up with a start. Crap! Oh; just the five-minute bell.
I ran again to the girl’s room to fix my rumpled hair and slept-in make up. There was no fixing the eyeliner (I only carried an extra brown one), so I just refreshed my mascara.
The halls now flooded with kids going to their class, I walked over to my locker and grabbed my Algebra and Spanish books.
A locker slammed loudly next to mine. “Schist!” I cried, using the rock to catch myself just in time. Our school had a strict language policy, and swearing meant a detention.
Peeking out through the vents I recognized the eyes. It was Gabby Nochwell.
“Come out, Gabbison,” I teased, banging on the door.
“Ow!” she yelled from the inside, the metal reverberated and made her louder.
I rolled my eyes and laughed. She could be a real drama queen.
“Out,” I commanded, unlocking the door and gesturing out to the open hallways. “Two minutes until Spanish.”
She huffed and jokingly stomped out. “You never let me have any fun,” she teased.
I laughed. Gabby was my Irish BFFL; red hair, freckles, and a strange hate for serious things.
Bursting through the door of room 121, we dashed to the final two seats available.
“Thanks Iz,” I said, refering to our friend Izobel Jueves.
She rolled her deep brown eyes. “You two are the latest people I know. If I didn’t save you seats, you’d end up on the floor.” As a closer, she contorted her face into a shape many people wouldn’t think was possible.
Izobel was always really nice to me and Gabby, and she was also very funny. But she could also talk a little too much, laugh a little too late or a little too long. Her social metronome was a tick off, which was definitely annoying.
She was shy, though, today. Me and Gabby passed notes through the class, as usual.
And through Algebra.
And Science.
Until lunch.
When it was time for lunch, I was starving. I hadn’t eaten in twelve hours... again!
I walked into line alone, since Gabby was finding a table. They were giving people pizza or salad today. As soon as I could, I picked a pizza.
Gabby managed to flag me down at a clean, but remote table in the corner of the cafeteria. With Izobel too, of course.
I was dead to the world in my starvation. I took a bite of the gooey cheese, lightly painted with tomato and laid on a bed of dough...
Guilt rushed my mind. Carbohydrates in the dough, fat in the cheese, sugar in the tomato. I was disgusting myself; I put down my lunch on the Styrofoam tray, silently staring at it. To eat or not to eat.
Um, Shiv, you alright?” Gabby asked. “You have gone on and on about how hungry you are all morning, and now you won’t eat?”
I shrugged and took a sip of my water. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought,” I replied.
Izobel shook her head. “You told me you didn’t have breakfast.” Gabby swiveled her head like an attack dog.
I paused. There was no getting past Gabby. The one reason she hated serious things? Nobody took them seriously. Her face turned red, and she talked slow.
“Siovhan?” She asked in a low, scary tone.
I gulped-- even at four ten, Gabby was threatening when she wanted to be. “Yes?”
Gabby leaned on her elbows across the table. “You didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”
My shoe laces were fascinating. The weave was so pretty. And it made me feel better than having to answer Gabby.
“And now you don’t want lunch.”
My eyes were welling with tears. She’s only doing this because she cares, I reminded myself. She cares about you.
A small voice in the back of my head piped up. It should make her scared. You haven’t eaten in a while.
The other side of my brain argued back. You want to be fat, you can stay fat.
I watched the reflection of light on my shoelace caps, rocking my feet back and forth to make it wiggle.
“You will eat this pizza. And you will eat it right now.”
I made the mistake of looking up. Gabby’s eyes had fire in them, and her cheeks were red.
Tentatively, I picked up the offending food and took a bite. Izobel picked at her salad, shrinking into the woodwork. I didn’t blame her. She had never seen Gabby upset before.
The redhead watched me, arms crossed. I swallowed the second pizza bite. I felt the pounds adding up in my stomach. But as soon as I gave my empty system the guaranteed message of food, I realized why Gabby was fighting for me. As much as I didn’t want to, I needed it. I devoured the pizza, including the crusts. I smiled at my friend.
Flush disappeared from her face and she smiled back. Izobel sat up again and started to talk. Everything was okay.
But I knew around Gabby I would still need to walk on eggshells. She was going to remember today for a long time, and she would remember any funny business with lunch.

Perfection- Chapter One

2011-07-19T18:06:00.000-04:00

*Chapter One*

My name is Siovhan Randers.

I’m fourteen.

I am five foot two.

And I’m fat.

• • •

I pulled on my swimsuit. Bright pink with orange dots and white stripes, and pale yellow ruffles on the stitching. It was a really cute bikini that snagged for five dollars at Target. I felt super lucky it came in my size-- which is a two. Usually they don’t carry it. Most people think size two is really small, but so am I. I’m only five two, after all.
I slipped the piece over my hips and adjusted it, my back to the mirror. I dreaded the moment where I judged my bikini body. It was always horrible.
I spun dramatically in front of my full-length mirror, attempting to put my mood up before I took a look. It didn’t work. I could see a small wave of fat rippling over the bottom piece. My thighs looked huge and lumpy in comparison to everything else, and seemed totally out of proportion. I waved my sandy blonde bangs over my eyes. I looked fat. I was an obese monster. I slid the suit off dejectedly, putting on instead my huge sweatshirt of Mom’s for UMass and my favorite Levi’s. I shoved my feet into some sweater-boots. It was May, but it was a veritable freezing for the season. Today was forty-seven. Some people think that is much warmer than I do, but I was not a born-and-raised Boston girl-- embrace the cold? Yeah, right. Not if you spent four years in North Carolina.
I slid down the banister of our staircase straight into the kitchen. Mom hates it, but it’s almost like what they say about smoking; quitting is much easier in theory. At the table was my little sister, Sadie. She’s eleven now, but unlike most girls I knew at that age, Sadie knows her place. She’s not catty; in fact, she makes a point of choosing geeky friends over popular ones (Even though she is so charismatic she could pick her nose and eat it, yet still have twenty BFFs). I dote on her, and her wavy blonde hair gives her the look of an angel. I sighed, wishing she only could have patience. Or common sense.
Right now, she was trying to see how far back she could tip her chair before it gave away. Case in point.
“Careful, Sade,” I warned her. “You’re going to crack your head open.”
She rolled her eyes, retorting, “No, I won’t, Siovhan!” Immediately, her concentration broke and the chair’s remaining two legs wobbled and shook. She tugged on the table and righted herself quickly, giving me a smug look.
I sighed. She gets great grades in school, but her smarts don’t always come to the party.
I turned into our laundry room at the end of the hallway, and climbed on top of the washer. It was my favorite spot to be alone. I pulled my laptop off of the top shelf next to the detergents. I opened up Google. I tried searching random things to get the image of my fat stomach from my mind. The distended wave kept coming, and coming, back into my mind. I Googled a fashion magazine to see the latest styles, but all I could see were skinny bikini models. They were thin, blonde and tanned. They looked too gorgeous for it to be true.
I knew it was, though. Stars in Hollywood have everything-- personal trainers, daily facials, perfect dieting plans, and abundances of makeup. How else would they look so beautiful?
My eyes teared, looking at the models. All I could think of was my fat. I was huge. Size two was too big, too big. It would never be small enough. I would have to get those models’ bodies. I couldn’t pass now. I was unacceptable. I vowed silently, atop of a rumbling washing machine, that I would become one of those models.
I would do whatever it took.

• • •

That night we were having hamburgers for dinner. Fatty, greasy, dripping hamburgers,
with piles of American cheese, a ketchup-y sugar load, and buns that were packed with carbs. Served with French fries bathed in salt. I could count how many extra pounds I’d put on just by eating it. It finally sunk in how gross some of the food I ate was.
There’s no wonder how you’re so fat, my mind taunted. You eat this garbage.
I knew there was a simple solution to this: Don’t. I didn’t need to eat it. Kids in Africa probably ran on a lettuce leaf a day. I could live minus a burger.
My family was setting the table, so I tiptoed past, praying nobody would see, up the stairs, where I began a mad run to my room. I shut the door quietly as I could. If anybody asks, I’m writing an essay, I thought, flopping down onto my unmade bed. If they come in, I just finished.
Breathing in the scent of my cotton pillowcases, I let out a sharp gasp as my stomach panged. I was starving. I then realized I hadn’t eaten since lunch. The only thing I could tell was that dieting was going to be really hard. I turned myself flat on my stomach now, breathing deep. I eventually was able to lull myself to a hungry, pained sleep.

Hold to Marta

2011-07-19T16:14:00.001-04:00

***Before we get this party started, I have to explain a bit.

This story is something I entered for a writing competition at thesims3.com. Of course, we couldn't just write anything for this special contest. We had to include this paragraph:

As the seconds ticked by my heart raced faster and faster. I had no hope left; my last hope was shattered into a million pieces a minute ago; there's nothing left for me. The door creaked open to reveal what I've been afraid to see. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it...right there...carefully watching my every move...

I've bolded it so that you can tell the difference between my writing and the paragraph given to us.***

I tossed the weathered baseball to my sister. Marta rose her arm and jumped up, catching the ball with both hands. She ran to me and gave me a hug.

Marta, my near-perfect sister, was the only thing that I loved in my life. My mother ended up cheating, and ran away from us to be with some man on the Internet. My father, Rick, was completely torn apart by that. I learned then that he was a recovering alcoholic. Now, he blows all of our money for beer and boxed wines.

I let Marta back down to the ground. “Come on,” I said with a smile. “Let’s get you some food.” My sister smiled up at me, her ocean-blue eyes twinkling. I weakly smiled down at her. We quietly tiptoed up the worn, red stairs to our porch. I held the brass doorknob in my hand, turning it to the right. The hinges squeaked as I pushed it open. Marta and I instinctively cringed, then paused to make sure our father didn’t hear.

We stepped inside, walking slowly. I could see from the hall into the family room-- Rick was passed out on the couch. I was relieved beyond words. Whenever he had too much alcohol, he would pass out for the rest of the day. I remembered he had been on the couch since midnight, yesterday. That meant me and Marta were safe until noon.

I walked over to the kitchen, with no need to be quiet. My sister, noticing why I suddenly dropped all caution, ran to the counter and got out some plates. “What are we going to eat, Lynn?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I replied, my good mood sinking a bit. I opened our old refrigerator, bracing myself. I hesitantly looked inside. It was empty, not counting the various beer bottles. I opened a drawer, and noticed some chicken drumsticks. I grinned, taking it out to thaw it in the microwave.

“Hey,” I said, checking the clock, “can you fry the chicken when the oil gets hot? I need to run an errand.” I grabbed some money I stowed in the back of the cupboard. I drew back my hand, with only five dollars and a mouse. I cursed in shock, throwing the filthy thing out the window. I sighed. Half of our money was nibbled or crapped on.

Marta shrugged. She was forever fearful of the stove, since when she was five, and Rick held her wrist to a hot burner.

I groaned inwardly. As much as I wanted her to do it, and as much as she wanted to do it, the last thing I needed was hot oil when my father woke up. “I’ll do it when I get home, okay?” I ran over and gave her a kiss on her forehead. I shut off the stove and put the oil aside.

I hopped on my bike, riding on the lonely road, until I met the nearest cornerstore. I rode inside on my bike.

“No riding,” a chubby man told me from a card table.
“Very funny, Al,” I retorted, referring to the tempermental owner. I was the only one to give him business, so I naturally exploited the privelage, whether it was riding in the shop or snagging a deal on the groceries.

“I mean it,” he snarled, flicking his hat out of his eyes. “Next week they’re opening that condo thing across the street, and I can’t have the likes of you ruining business.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Your store sucks anyway.”

Furious, Al rose from his chair and pushed me from my bike. “I said I MEAN it. Now OUT!”

I crashed into the drink cooler, slamming my head on the hard, plastic edge. “Who cares?” I cried as I hopped up from the spot. “Downtown doesn’t smell like a goat’s ***.”

I rode the extra half-mile to downtown Southdale. The back of my head began to ache, but it honestly just felt like a Sunday night with Rick.

Parking my old bike at the stairwell of the grocery store, I went in. It was tiled, air-conditioned, and had all the food you could want. Every time I came, I wondered why I resorted to Al’s cornerstore. I hunted around for the drink coolers, picking up one and a half gallons of milk.

Setting the drinks on the conveyor belt at the register, I handed the cashier the five dollars I had. I breathed when she handed me back fifty cents of change. The quarters clicked together in my pocket, picking up my mood a notch.

I dropped the two cartons in the basket of my bike and rode off. The sun was high in the sky. Oh no, I thought as I realized what was happening. No, no, no, no no no no no!

Passing the clock tower as I raced through the streets, I swore under my breath-- it was one o’clock.

I pedaled furiously through the emptying roads, which became more and more remote. I passed the town common, the condo complex, and finally the sign for Thatcher Lane. I was at least five minutes from home. Tears and sweat ran down my face as I raced through the narrow asphalt.

Finally, finally, finally, I saw the field where I played catch with Marta not so long ago. I ditched the bike in the yard and ran to the house, carrying the milk and pounding up the stairs I had been so careful with a minute ago.

I burst through the door and saw a wineglass on the floor, cracked, spilling purple fluid all over the linoleum at the table.

Too late.

Rick had woken up. He had no food, because I stopped Marta from frying the chicken. Did I? I wondered momentarily. I could smell something burning. You have bigger things to worry about, stupid! I thought to myself. I rushed into the kitchen doors.

There, on the floor, was Marta. And Rick, in a drunken rage, was screaming and kicking her knees.

The door slammed behind me, and he turned from yelling at Marta. “And you!” he shouted, pointing at my face. “You left your sister alone! And you weren’t watching her.”

I nodded solemnly. I told Marta not to cook the chicken, but I couldn’t rat her out now.

“And now,” my father slurred, “I’m hungry, and I don’t have any food ’cause of you brats. So now you’re going to get it, you stupid kids.”

He took his hand, and slapped Marta across the face. She cried out, rubbing the harsh mark across her face.

“What’s wrong? Does that hurt you?” He said, in a falsely apologetic tone. He turned his hand to a fist and slammed it to her nose. “Does that hurt, too?” He screamed at her. Marta stayed still, cupping her hands around her bloody nose.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I hit him upside his head with one of the plastic plates left on the counter. “Leave her alone!” I screamed, punching his stomach.

“Why? Does it bother you?” Rick shouted, kicking my stomach. “Does it bother widdle Lynnie that her baby sissy is being hurt by her daddy?”

I was sent backward into the cutlery drawer, which bounced back open as I fell forward. I reached back for a knife, pretending I was just holding it for balance.

He wound up to hit me across my face, but I whipped out the knife, cutting into his knuckles.

“You little--!” Rick yelled, clutching his hand as he backed into the stove. Losing what little balance he fought for in his drunk state, he fell back, tipping over the oil. Half dripped onto his hand and his foot, but the other half spilled over the counter, burning Marta’s arm.

Given what little head start I had, I grabbed my sister and ran up the stairs. I locked every door I came to, until we had finally found refuge in the attic.

“This is bad,” I said, listening to Rick’s howling and shouting downstairs. Marta nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Let me see,” I said, gesturing for her arm.

As she reluctantly let me hold her arm, I felt my finger along the welts from long-ago fights. I ran my nail over scrapes from the recent rage. Finally, about at her elbow, her skin was red, and raised with blisters. I winced from looking at it. “This is really bad,” I muttered. “I have to get the phone. We need an ambulance.”

Marta looked at me with wide eyes. “The phone is in the living room.”

I sighed. She was right. We were trapped up here. But there was no way I was going to let her arm go without a visit to the hospital. I quickly blessed myself and ran out the attic.

I ran downstairs and grabbed the phone from the coffee table, and I raced back up them. I thanked God for stalling Rick in the precious moments it took to grab the phone.

I made it to my bedroom, and from there it was a clear run to the attic. I ran to Marta’s side and hugged her. She started crying. “Lynn, it burns,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“I know, sweetie,” I whispered, “that’s why we call a doctor, so they can help you.”

I dialed 9-1-1, and heard an operator pick up on the other line. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

Suddenly, I could hear footsteps closer to the closet. Rick was getting closer-- I held Marta tight to me. “Me and my sister live in Southdale on Thatcher Lane, and she got burned by some oil-- please help us!” I cried.

I waited for a response, but the woman only said, “I am calling for an ambulance now, please hold tight!”

As the seconds ticked by my heart raced faster and faster. I had no hope left; my last hope was shattered into a million pieces a minute ago; there's nothing left for me. The door creaked open to reveal what I've been afraid to see. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it...right there...carefully watching my every move...

Rick found us.

Now was the only time I could make my move-- I threw the phone I had been holding in my hands. It broke the glass, with scattered throughout the room. I kept my hold of Marta and ran the few feet left between me and the window.

And I jumped.

○ ○ ○

As soon as I woke up, I heard beeping noises and saw bright lights. My arm was stiff, and held into place. I bent over to see what happened-- it was molded into a yellow cast. I realized I couldn't move my foot, either. My head was pounding, and I remembered why. I looked around, and suddenly discovered I was in a hospital.

I leaned over to tell Marta something, but she wasn't there. Nobody was in my lonely cubicle. I pulled myself off of the cot and reached for the end table to steady myself. I hobbled across the room and pushed through the door.

As soon as I stepped out, a nurse ran over to me. "Lynn!" She exclaimed, "please go rest. You are very hurt and you really shouldn't be walking around."

"I need to see Marta," I said, stepping past her.

"Please sit--"

"I need to see my sister!" I shouted. "Where is Marta?"

"Lynn, I will have Marta see you in a second, please just sit--"

I shrieked. I didn't seem to have any control of what I did, but all I knew was I had to visit my sister.

The nurse took her fingers out of her ears, and in a defeated voice, she mumbled, "Marta is in room two-thirteen."

"Thank you," I spat, waddling off.

Finally I had found Marta's room. I pushed open the door and found her blonde head poking out from under the blanket. "Lynn?" She said, tentatively.

I opened my arms and she ran to me, sobbing. "It's okay," I whispered to her, "everything is going to be okay."

New to Blogger!

2011-07-19T15:51:00.000-04:00

Being new to Blogger, I'm going to explain what "Emma Writes" is all about:
I write stuff and post it on a blog. I may write anything-- opinions, stories, poems, rants, all that stuff.
Feel free to comment in the box down below, or click on a reaction.