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                                           I am alone. Again.

                                I lift my head from my pillow to glance at my alarm clock. You'd think that after lying awake for four hours, I'd be tired. At least the slightest bit.  I let my eyes adjust to the darkness before I attempt to leave my bed. Who am I kidding? I cant sleep like this.

                               The house is insanely quiet. My bare feet stick to the cold floor as I walk down the hallway. the back door is unlocked, but sticks a little. I pull at it. A fresh breeze washes over me as the door swings open, welcoming me into the night

                                I am numb.

                                Numb to all feeling. I don't feel the shrill wind or the wet grass. Or the cold, lost feeling that pierces my heart.

                                I am on the front lawn. I lie down, and let the dew soak into my pajamas. I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and click the lighter once, twice, before it gives me what I want. Inhale, exhale, I think. There's a good girl. I picture my lungs, drying out, decaying, like on that anti-smoking add. I picture them turning black, and hollow. Drying me up from the inside.

                                I flip my lighter around in my fingers. It's got a picture of a lighthouse on it. I remember, when Sam bought me that lighter.  It was when we were on Hornby Island, you know, the one with all the hippies and the campers. We were at the general store, and I needed some form of fire. He didn't even ask what I needed it for, which I appreciated greatly. [...]

                                 I take bigger puffs of my cigarette, sucking on it as if it were life itself.

                                In the distance I can hear the sirens of an ambulance

                                I couldn't tell you when I fell asleep. I just know that I woke up to sun and trees and awake ness, no more stars, no more night. Shit, I think to myself. I pick up my lighter and stand up, dizzy and light-headed with sleep. I can see my dad looking at me through the window, shaking his head at me. What? I think. What's the big fucking deal?

                                I drag my ass into the house just because the neighbors are staring. I feel so naked and unwanted outside, in the middle of their life. Like a splinter in their perfect day. My dad says I scare him half to death when I sleep outside. He says he'll go into my room and not find me and get worried out of his mind. I tell him to stay out of my shit. Besides, he should be used to it by now. All he has to do is look out of the fucking window.

                                And of course, he goes on about how that's not the point. That it's not safe, blah blah blah. But tell me, what is safe in this broken world we call home? "Obviously, doctor, you're never been a 13-year old girl before."

                                As a child, we are protected, and sheltered. We haven't heard of rape, nor are we aware of what foul crimes have been committed in the splintered fragments of our country, and we haven't heard or drugs, or prostitution, or any of the other misfortunes that corrupt our plagued world. Until we grow up a bit, we are ignorant to how miserable this world really is. But then everything has to rain down on us all at once, and all of a sudden, we are not intrigued to go on. some may even think, what's the point? Because we have begun to realize that everything and anything can and just might hurt us. and I don't know about you, but I'm tired of the pain.

                                Rape. What an ugly word. Collin's Pocket Reference Dictionary describes the word as:

                                                                Rape - n force to submit to sexual intercourse                                                                              

                                                                            v act of raping, any violation or  abuse

                                Rape is the ultimate form of sexual abuse.

                                I am afraid of death.

                                I am afraid of dying.

                                But, then again, I'm also afraid of living.

                                I am afraid.

                                I want to forget every fucking thing that plagues my mind. If I grow up, I'll invent amnesia in a bottle. For those of us who are too chicken to knock our memories out by force. I want to stop feeling. I want to shake my head, and wiggle my toes, and flap my arms up and down, all the while not feeling anything. I want to become completely numb. to anything, and everything.

                                I want him to be here. I want him to wrap his arms around me, and make me feel like everything is okay. Like everything's going to be okay. The way that only he can make me feel. I want to cry, until I cant cry anymore, and I want him to wipe my tears and hold me and reassure me that everything will work out. I feel like I'm choking. Choking on this lump of misery lodged in my throat. I need him.

                                I remember one day, when my mother was still alive, I got home from school. She was sitting in the living room, staring out the window. She didn't even seem to notice that I was there. And it scared me, because she seemed so sad. I could never picture my mom as sad. She was the one who was always supposed to take care of me, to put a smile back on my face, and hold me and tell me that everything is going to be alright. But that day, I saw clearly for the first time that she could very well break. And if she broke, who would take care of me? It was that day that i realized that none of us are immune. We will all break, eventually.

                                He asked me if everything was alright. He senses that its not. I lie, though. I tell him I'm fine. Tired? he asks. Yeah, that's it. Tired. I'm tired. But no, he knows. He won't let it go. He asks me again. I lie, again. No you're not, he says. You're not. What's wrong? and that's then point when I can't take it anymore. I let loose. Wet, salty tears run down my face, fast-paced, and down my neck. I shiver. And he takes me in his arms. I try my best to describe how I feel. But I can't. I just can't. But how are you supposed to describe to someone something that you can't describe to yourself? I speak at last, and I tell him, I say this is what she was supposed to do. This is what she was supposed to be like. But she wasn't, she couldn't, she never understood, and then she left. He takes my face in his hands, and looks into my eyes. somehow I feel violated. I feel like he's intruding, by doing that. I'm sure that he can see the darkness, the ugliness, the pain. My soul, dark as the absence. After all, the eyes are the window into the soul, right?

                                I go into my room. I hate my room. It's the ugliest place...and definitely not mine. If it were mine, it would be empty. And dark. Dark and empty, just like me. I close the curtains and turn off the light, so that for a while, I can't see anything at all. Then I feel my way over to my bed, stumbling on dirty clothes and books, and immerse myself under the covers. This is getting harder and harder, this game. Its getting harder to pretend. "Pretending to be happy doesn't make you happy"

                                I can't keep it out. I can't keep ignoring her.

                                I crawl out of my cave, my sanctuary. Because, really, there is nowhere I can hide.

                                I am not okay.

                                I stand up, calm, yet frantic. But I am sure of what I am doing. I am thinking, thinking of the past. My mind goes back and forth through time. I have very little memories of her. But what does that matter? As far as I'm concerned, She might as well not have existed at all.

                                She's dead.

                                She never loved me, never understood

                                She couldn't give me what I needed.

                                She failed.

                                I pick up the knife. It's cold and heavy in my hand

                                She never loved me.

                                I run down the hall, and shut the door.

                                She never loved me.

                                I stare at my wrists. Tiny scars, tiny snap shots of what this would be like

                                She never cared.

                                I am ready.

                                The knife cuts easily. It's sharp. I slit open my veins, and watch the silent red river pour from them, over my arms, into a pool on the floor. Trickle trickle. I don't feel the pain. I am emptying my body, my soul. I imagine all the pain, all the hurt, all the darkness and ugliness pouring out with my blood. I feel that I am free.

                                Unfortunately, I can still rationalize.

                                She is dead, I think

                                Dead as darkness.

                                I am dying.

                                Is this what dying feels like? Is this what I was so afraid of?

                                She's killed me. Made me kill myself.

                                Just look what she's done to me.

                                I want to tell him. To show him what she's done, to make him understand.

                                And it is only now, that I am on the verge of death, that I realize what should of been painfully clear. He can understand. He loves me, he cares for me. He is everything that she couldn't be.

                                And he is what will save me.