It was that time, the time where I lured my thoughts away from my head and into the fire until they were burnt beyond recognition. Sure, the dental records would eventually come back to haunt me, but for now I would be safe. As of now I had something else to focus on. As for now there was plenty of beautiful, gorgeous, perfect pain to hold my attention.

I was lying on the cool floor feeling the heat course through my veins. I was watching the gorgeous golden flame against the whitish green of my fingers; watching as it danced farther and farther up my arm. The pain was immense - I could barely feel my thoughts. I could barely feel anything at all. I grinned; it was only a matter of minutes until I didn't have to feel at all.

If I had to give one reason why I did this so often, it would be for the precious silence that only pain could create. It would be for the numb, empty feeling inside and out that made me both physically and emotionally weightless. It would be because I could have all of this without taking a single drug. I had considered drugs for quite awhile, but they were just so… unprofessional. There were no golden dancers, no scars to remind you of that exact moment. There was no way to plan your suicide with drugs; you could overdose any time you use. Drugs were extremely messy, and you had to have regular access to a nice amount of cash. And in order to have a nice amount of cash, you either had to be very good at stealing or have a job where you work whenever you're not at school.

A job, at this point, was out of the question. For starters, I was not exactly your model employee. Most stores aren't overly fond of seventeen-year-old smokers with scars all over themselves and an overabundance of makeup. If I was going to be around for "the real world", companies wouldn't exactly fall all over themselves for me either. And that's an excellent reason to avoid a job. But the biggest reason is probably the things I would be putting up with. The people I would be putting up with, mostly. The orders weren't very big of a deal.

Let's face it, there is absolutely no way to avoid the people you hate. Especially when you hate everyone in your school. Times a thousand if you're a completely unskilled, lazy person who wants an after-school job. And that would be prolonging my pain, seeing them any more than I had to. That would be bringing more upon myself. I choose not to bring anything upon myself, plenty seems to find me as things stand now.

I've figured that the fire probably works for me better anyway. Sure, drugs can lift you up, but then you have to come down. Fire doesn't mess with your head. Fire doesn't mess with your organs, either, and I planned to donate mine. I had hopes of burning just enough to kill me without killing my insides, but my lungs could go if they wanted. Smoking ruined your organs plenty, but not all of them. And there wasn't a drug that hurt enough. No pain, no gain, I thought, because sometimes even the stupidest of sayings ring true when you put them in a different light. Fire was, I had long ago decided, perfect. Fire had given me hell.

Hell would be my room. I, being the pathetic freak that I am, have spent two years decorating it according to the standards of the underworld. I had flame licking the walls; candles so packed together that I had a fire large enough to submerge my whole body in. I made sure that I got the right velvety black paint, just to cover it in bright reddish shades until I almost forgot I had bought black paint. I bought into that satanic music crap, playing it from the closet. Somehow it made me feel less insane, and sanity was still precious to me. I liked feeling like I was the sanest person on earth. And besides the candles and a worn out mattress (with sheets I had drawn fire on with fabric markers), the room was empty. The closet held remnants of my earlier years, pink and flowery and generally disgusting. When I went in there, I felt like Dracula when he sees daylight. I was thirteen when I fixed hell up. Or you could say I was thirteen when I messed my normality up. Now I was seventeen, and somewhere along the way I had picked up such habits as smoking and burning things… whatever involved fire.

I suppose I was only twelve or so when I made my decision. I had been looking into various ways to end one's life, looking for the best way to go. I don't know why I was still alive; really, I was so ecstatic about the whole suicide thing. There were so many options: pills, drugs, guns, knives, poison. But I chose fire. I spent a lot of time learning everything I could about it, everything about how it could hurt me, everything about how to send one room up in flames without killing anyone else. I had learned everything. And now I was ready, I guess.

I was ready. It seemed like I had been ready years ago. I wondered just how long I was going to be ready before I just went on with it.

Despite my anticipation, I had recently set the date back awhile. It was going to happen immediately, but now I had chosen to wait a little while longer. I wasn't adding any years onto it or anything, just until my eighteenth birthday. About two weeks. For the next few days I would be preparing a eulogy of sorts, a final tribute to my giant screw up of a life. I guess it was mostly just to piss my mother off. I was a resentful, awful person in that respect-- in most respects. My primary reason to wait so long, however, was Mahogany. It really amazed me after, how so much time; Mahogany almost made me into a sappy, sitcom-esque person. Almost. There was still some self control stuck somewhere in my mind. She was all a part of my intense longing to be accepted.

Years and years ago, so long ago that it feels to me like centuries, my still-pink room had changed a bit. The door was always closed, I was always there, and I was always alone. Alone, screening my thoughts and the day's events and crying when I figured out what I should have done-- when I figured out what was so wrong with me at that time. I say that as if anyone had any idea what I did in there. Really, they probably thought I was absorbed in some sort of perfectly healthy obsession, as if there was such a thing. But in reality, I would sit in there, doing my crying, lonely thing in my pastel pink room, and my family would ignore me. They didn't ever seem to notice the quiet sobbing sneaking out from under the door. Obsession, they mused to themselves, she's discovering boy bands or picking up a hobby that she can't stop doing. They somehow could work that into the lack of friends I had coming over. Maybe they thought I wanted to drool over my posters alone. Maybe they thought that I had, at some point, gotten posters or supplies to support that mysterious hobby. I'd actually stopped having friends at all. They should have inferred it. But they didn't. Mom was happy as long as I came downstairs and ate a little of my dinner, a bite of every food. Dad would be fine as long as I never failed a class, which I didn't then. I guess at that point I still believed that it would go away. Ash was content whenever I left him alone. Mahogany wasn't content.

I guess that Mahogany and I had once been close enough that she kept her eyes open long enough to figure out what was going on. I had never thought I was asking so much of everyone, really. I had never thought it was so horribly hard to look at me every once in awhile. I couldn't be that painful to look at. I looked just like Mahogany.

Only different.

We used to feel each other's thoughts all of the time, Mahogany and I. It's one of those weird things you hear about on TV shows all the time, one of those things you wave off as a subplot on an overly-dramatic show. But the truth is, it was real. We could really do it then. When we were still twins, and not the angel and devil sitting on cartoon characters' shoulders, that is. I had put an end to that when I detached myself from the world. It had been hard to separate myself from Mahogany, harder than I had expected, even, but I had accomplished it. Even now, though, I almost still liked her. I was permanently torn between wanting to be her best friend and hating her. Regardless, I wanted to get her a birthday present. Hey, you only turn eighteen once, right? And I would only have one chance to thank her for caring just enough to keep me from rushing too much. She had kept me from a messy, unprofessional suicide. She had kept me from my worst nightmare, despite how closely linked it was to my dream.

She did all that she could. I can tell whenever I go near my door that it sends vibes to stay away. I can tell that she could not come in to see me. It's almost like if you touch the painted on flame, you'll get burned. Even my room repelled all signs of life. It sends out a clear and concise message that it wants to be left alone.

Even Mahogany listened to it.

The words echoed in my head longer and louder than most. I guess it still hurt. I had become pretty good at telling myself that it didn't.

Even Mahogany listened.

I pulled myself into a sitting position and lit a cigarette. I must've grown out of my dosage of pain, it obviously hadn't worked. I had burned most of my arm, and I still felt low. I wasn't floating, and I wasn't sure how I could now. I smoked all night. If I couldn't be happy I could at least ruin my lungs and cost my family money. That had to bring me some joy, or at least more than just sitting.

The next morning I was still yet to sleep. It wasn't any big deal; there were a lot of days I didn't sleep. But I had been thinking. That was the awful thing about not sleeping. I always ended up thinking. Thinking in general was an okay thing. It's not like I was opposed to using my mind or anything. It was just what I always ended up thinking about.

Really, it shouldn't surprise me. The first thing a person thinks about is probably always the one thing they shouldn't be thinking about. And I was thinking about my family. Thinking about their feelings towards me. I was wondering if they were really so oblivious, so blind and uncaring. I was wondering if there was any way that… if it was possible… could it be me? Was it my fault all along that my family was so good at ignoring my problems? The thought had certainly crossed my mind that what was glaringly obvious to me wasn't visible at all to others. My logical side said it made sense. But I couldn't imagine it. Drastic changes like the ones I had gone through weren't invisible. Everything I had done, all of the tattoos, it was all to be noticed. There was no way all of that was invisible to them.

Was there?

I put up a good front. I had to give myself credit for that. But there were still so many times… I missed them so often. There were so many days where I just wanted to forget this whole thing. I had trouble believing I was doing the right thing. It was supposed to be easier than this. It was supposed to be the first thing in my life that was easy. And it wasn't. I didn't want to be ignored by my own damn twin. I didn't want to sit around all day planning a day that kept on getting pushed back for stupid reasons. I didn't want to live like this, but I didn't really want to die like this either.

I was pretty damn confused.

It just seemed weird to me that the exact thing that was meant to be liberating me was keeping me from what I wanted. It was just to keep me from pain, I knew… but wouldn't all of the pain be left behind me soon? So why wasn't I doing whatever I pleased, short of felonies?

I liked to fool myself quite a lot, but it didn't always work. I missed Mahogany. Missed knowing people. Talking. Working hard on a homework assignment and grinning at the "A". Being considered entirely human. I missed everything about life so much. I was living like I was already dead.

It wasn't that I didn't want to die. I just wanted to justify my reasons. Prove that I couldn't be helped. Spend a little less time being miserable.

I wanted to say goodbye to Mahogany for a little while, not just the P.S. on a note they'd lock away as evidence.

Well, what did I have to lose? I would be dead soon. Any embarrassment that I felt today would be completely erased from time in just two weeks. I could take it for two weeks. I could take it. I could take anything. No I couldn't, if I could take anything I wouldn't do the cowardly thing and kill myself. But I could take anything for two weeks. Just not any longer.

I walked towards Mahogany's room. I could take anything for two weeks. I could take total rejection. I could take it if she didn't say goodbye back. I just had to be squirrelly and indirect about talking to her; so that my ass would be covered no matter what happened. My hand reached out and turned the knob. It wasn't me going inside that door. It wasn't Mirabelle. It was just my body parts, collectively plotting my doom… in a way much more real than I had been plotting it. In a much more real way than I would ever be able to. But I couldn't help feel good as I touched the knob, though. Unlike mine, this door was warm and inviting. This door felt like home. I felt like I was going home… but I shook my head, and kept shaking until I had fully recovered that my home didn't exist. This room was not my room. This was not home. This could never be home.

This was not only not home, it was suffering from an apparent lack of Mahogany. I had gone into her damn room for her and she wasn't even here. Hot with anger and embarrassment, I turned around to go burn myself or something. Maybe burn a childhood object of affection. Burn a picture of my sister. Just burn something, anything. I turned around to leave, and Mahogany was standing there.

I tried to begin my apology; begin my goodbye. I tried to get something to come out of my throat. God, even puke would do. I just didn't want to stand there like an idiot. The idiot I had always been; the part I had always played because I was just so good at it. I didn't want to stand there and be the idiot that had torn my world apart. I quickly tried to remember the salutations appropriate for the situation. I had forgotten how to say hello. "Er…" she broke the silence, rubbing her eyes, "Did you… did you need something?" My mind desperately pleaded yes, I really wanted to talk things out… I really wanted to be Mirabelle again and not whatever I had become… that I needed her help, that I wanted to redecorate my room… but I stood in the middle of her room, silent and emotionless while she struggled to figure out what I was trying to do.

Minutes passed. Hours may have passed. I just know that I stood there, looking at her face and comparing it to mine… we weren't so identical anymore. I already looked sickly from six years of constant smoking; my eyes were just eyes, while hers were something more. I'll be damned if I could put my finger on it, I just know that it was familiar to me. Probably another thing I had lost. Finally, when I felt like I could just collapse right then and there from being so tired, she said something again. She said words that hurt more than the candles ever could. She said something that hurt in the worst way. "Look, Mir." She sighed. "If you can't even answer me when I ask you a question, I don't know why you're here. I don't get why you can't talk to me but you think I'm horrible because I can't figure out what's wrong. I can't read your thoughts anymore, Mir. If you have something to say you've got to say it."

I was crushed. She didn't care if I was going away. Of course not, why should she? What had I done for her in the past six years? I didn't even know what I was doing anymore. I was pathetic. Was I trying to find a reason not to kill myself? Or was it the opposite? I was tired of thinking so much.

I ran back to my room as far as my weak and unused legs could carry me after so much pain. I needed to be numb. I'd burn my whole body if I had to. Forget the present, forget the eulogy. I could just do it now.

I picked up my lighter and eyed the homemade whole body candle. Could I really do it now?

I quickly went over the plan in my mind, minus all of that crap about my birthday and doing nice things for my sibling and pissing my mom off. Step one: get numb. I didn't know how much I had to burn anymore. I just knew it was a lot. The last time I tried I had burned the entire top of my arm, and I still had plenty of self-awareness. So it was time to use the body candle.

I had actually made a mold of myself for that thing. I had dumped all sorts of wax in and spaced the wick about a half a centimeter apart each way. This candle was more like a wildfire, and I was going to lay down in it. If that couldn't make me numb, nothing could… besides maybe every inch of my body burning at once. But that would kill me. So I was burning about half of myself. Just the backside. I could live through that, if not for very long. And I wanted to be numb when I died. I wanted to ignore everything I had and hadn't done, everything that made me sad or angry or lonely. I wanted to leave the earth thinking of nothing but how beautiful the fire was. I always wanted to remember that fire, as I strolled through the streets of heaven… or as I sat around in Hell, in which case I'd remember the fire quite well, I'd imagine.

I was around halfway through thinking out my last moments when I figured I should just get on with it. Right, so… lighter. I begged myself to think clearly, this was when it mattered most. I had to keep all of the ends tied or else I'd fail. I was not going to fail again. Ever again. I smiled, relieved. Now, for the lighter.

Ten minutes later I had finally accepted that there was absolutely no way I was going to light the candle without leaving my room first. None of my matches would light; my lighter was missing. It seemed like the world was trying to keep me from getting it over with. Doubt flowed through my veins, watering down my blood until I started to feel faint. If I didn't do this fast, I wasn't going to do it at all. I needed to get some matches. I needed to find the closest place in the house that would have matches. I knew we had some downstairs, in the kitchen, but I didn't feel like my adrenaline would last that long. I needed a bedroom. My mind quickly replayed my few seconds in Mahogany's room not spent looking at her; she had a lot of candles. Her collection almost rivaled mine. And five minutes ago I had heard her leave. She would probably be at the theatre for hours. I could have up to an hour to find matches in her room, and it was just down the hall. I briefly questioned my motives; maybe I just wanted to snoop through her things, but I knew I was certainly not that vile. I was the good twin; they just didn't know it. Maybe when they found me they would understand. I was the good twin. I would always be the good twin, the only good person in the family. I would always be the good one, no matter what happened.

I pasted an entirely fake innocent sort of grin on my face, for whoever would surely catch me walking the halls. With the sort of luck I was having today, I would need it. A deep breath, and then I was off.

The first few steps were the hardest, but just moments later, after passing Ash (who didn't care what I was up to anyway), I was standing in the middle of Mahogany's oh-so-perfect room. It was kind of weird; she seemed to be a lot like me. She's not a bit like you, I had to remind myself. I had to keep on telling myself that we were opposites. Like north and south. Nevermind magnets and their whole opposite fetish. Matches, I breathed, I need the matches. I walked over to where most of her candles were, cutesy or pastel, but all I saw besides candles was a box. It had a big M scratched into it. M could easily stand for matches. My alphabet knowledge properly put to the test after all those years… wonderful. I lifted the lid of the box, and it was matchless. Instead, I found my closet. There were swirly pink flowers and pictures of twin dark-haired girls. And a picture of one dark-haired girl, smiling brightly. And a picture of another dark-haired girl, with caked on makeup twirling some spaghetti; pretending to be eating it. They were all dated, and the earlier ones had names. Without the names, I would have never guessed which was which.

The pictures struck a nerve. Why did everything have to be happening to me today? I would have bet money that M didn't stand for matches. I grabbed the pictures, intending to burn them as soon as possible. Maybe with me. Burn away my past, present, what would have been my future. I could burn away all of it. I would just have to take some of Mahogany's with me.

Where were those damn matches when you needed them?

I was sitting on the corner of the stage, eyeing my watch constantly. Mom was supposed to be here by now. Mom was supposed to have been here an hour ago. I briefly wondered what was so important to her that kept her from picking up her only daughter-- well, her only real daughter. It was probably the latest issue of her decorating magazine, or a phone call from a friend. She might not have even remembered that she was supposed to pick me up. I needed a car; I couldn't keep depending on her like this.

It was getting dark, and they would have to throw me out again soon. Mom always forgot me. I guess there was something on her mind… all of the time. I wasn't bitter or anything, just a little tired of the routine.

It was the same every time. Mom suggests hobby. I, after much resistance, finally agree to do whatever it is she wants me to do so badly. For a few days, everything is fine, and then she assumes I'm fine staying there all of the time, because she stops picking me up. Pretty slowly… only a half-hour at first, then later and later until I ended up getting hours of sleep before getting a ride home. Tonight I might not go home. And Mom would apologize profusely, then do it again tomorrow. Or maybe she wouldn't even apologize. I was quickly becoming invisible to her. I sighed; each day was just like the last with a little more wasted time. Eugh, I was sounding like Mirabelle again. At least how I imagined Mirabelle would sound, if she ever said anything. I selfishly thought that I did not want to be her twin. Why couldn't I have a better twin, anyway? Why didn't I deserve the perfect twin? I was making myself sick again. I didn't even know anything about her, and I was condemning her. I was practically saying I wished she had never been born.

I wondered how things would have been if she wasn't. I wondered if her… her… whatever it was about her had somehow rubbed off on me and made me a worse person. I wondered who was the worse twin. Wait a second, me… worse than her? The idea was laughable. Or at least it would have been laughable if I knew enough to comfortably say that inside and out, I was better. I knew that outwardly I was certainly the more normal, but I was starting to wonder if normal wasn't better. It certainly seemed to be more widely accepted, more expected. Different was celebrated, but only if you were different in the way they wanted you to be. It was pretty absurd. More importantly, it was eight o' clock.

I grabbed my bag, grabbed my coat, and went to stand outside. It couldn't be much colder there than it was in the silence of the empty theatre. My skin crawled just from being in there. Theatres were fine, as long as there were people in it. Not a lot of people; I didn't like audiences at all and was generally unfit to be a thespian, but being the only person in there was far too much. It made me feel worse than having a packed tight audience could ever make me feel. I felt like I was performing, still, only by myself. I had spent large portions of my life avoiding loneliness, having to have someone with me at all times. The street would still be alive and full.

This was a horrible part of town to be in at night, though. I might've been spoiled, but I didn't like it when at least half of the people out there were holding bottles in brown paper sacks. And God, how I hated the smokers. They were doing more damage to my lungs than theirs; they were just such rats. Around seventy percent of all smokers looked like their habit had led them to a life on the street. For the third time that night, Mirabelle wandered into my mind. She really had no right to live in a great home and smoke a pack a day without doing anything to pull her weight (as if she had any, she stayed just normal enough to avoid questions). To just sit there while people who had probably at some point meant well sat around begging for spare change, counting their pennies and sighing at the cigarette displays in convenience store windows. She didn't deserve to be better than them. She should be staring in dismay at the prices in the windows, sobbing as she ate as cheaply as possible to support her addiction. She deserved it every bit as much as they did. Then why am I so curious about her? Why, if I hate her so much, has she come up three times within the past half-hour?

I guess I didn't hate her as much as I thought. Or maybe I did, and I was just so hateful that she kept popping up. That had never exactly happened to me before. I sighed again; everything with Mirabelle was a new experience these days. She thought she was so horribly clever. She thought she was the first person to ever feel pain. She didn't even know what pain was, really, not that I did. She had brought it all upon herself. You could tell just by looking at her. She felt like she was just so special, so different. She felt like there was some purpose for her suffering, when really she had just made all of it up; invented her "pain" just for fun.

I felt horrible just thinking that about her. I couldn't help jumping back and forth between being too nice and too mean. I guess that was Mirabelle's contribution to my life then. She made me more confused than any amount of normal life ever could. All this and she didn't even talk. Talk about weird powers.

I sort of wanted to get to know her.

It'd be interesting to be the only one that did. It kept on getting darker and I kept on going deeper, trying to find my sister's soul.

I drowsily noted the colour of the night sky. It was a deep, royal blue and tonight there was a stripe of orange that didn't seem to go away through the hours. Stripe of orange, I thought to myself, as if stating some amazing fact, there's a sunset coloured stripe at midnight. I smiled to myself as my eyes fluttered shut. There's a stripe of orange at midnight.

When my eyes opened again at around three in the morning, the orange strip wasn't there. I was embarrassed about the stricken feeling I had without it. It was a little line of colour, I reasoned with myself; I could draw a line on a piece of paper and have my very on copy of it, for God's sake. But there had been something special about the sky that night, and whether I was just too out of my head to recognize it as something normal or if it really meant something was anyone's guess.

I took my eyes off of the empty looking sky and onto the dimly lit streets that now seemed as empty as the theatre had a few hours earlier. A few bedraggled men and women (with the occasional child that made me count my blessings, even if they felt like curses) were snoring under the street lights, looking much more content than people with reason to be often did. A man only a few feet away from her had his hand clutched around a dollar bill, smirking in his sleep as if he knew no one would dare take it from him. The money reminded me that the sooner I called home, the more likely it would be that someone would be awake.

I stuffed my hands into their respective pockets to get the change I kept with me for such instances. I was not the kind of person who left home without at least enough money to make a phone call. I wanted to be prepared for the sorts of things that seemed to always happen to me... like now, for instance. Here I was, in a bad neighborhood late at night, without any transportation. Without money, I would be stuck here… home was too far away to even consider walking.

I pulled my hands out of their respective pockets. Something was wrong… my hands were empty, my pockets were empty, and I didn't have anything up my sleeve. Without money, I would be stuck here… home was too far away to even consider walking.

I began considering walking. How bad could it be? Oh, I don't know… I thought, can't be more than a forty-five minute drive. So, provided that I learned how to walk fifty miles per hour, I could be home in about that much time. My chances of getting up and walking for extended periods of time the way I was feeling now were slim. I turned again to the man with the dollar… God, I would feel so horrible if I stole from someone who didn't have anything. But I had to be realistic. He had probably gotten that dollar from someone else's hands, anyway. Beggars and thieves were practically the same. They both got money that wasn't theirs. It was just the method that differed.

The guy was asking for it, anyway. The least he could do is put it somewhere out of the public eye. And if I felt bad enough, I could always come back down here and repay him. I reasoned with myself for several minutes, weighing my guilt against my need. Then I got up and took a few steps towards him.

He snored soundly, with one hand curled around the fading bill. Every time my hand got within about a foot of it he grunted in his sleep and tightened his grip. I was extremely nervous. When you added my nervousness to the guilt I felt you had the ultimate combination. I was surprised I didn't keel over right there.

But then I snapped. My guilt and nervousness transformed into horrible anger. I was so angry with my mother. Why the hell couldn't she just remember to pick me up from something she ordered me to do?

And that was when I decided to wait. I decided to sit there and let her worry. If she ever chose to remember she'd know where I was. And otherwise… well, she'd remember eventually. It wasn't like her to forget me for forever, only as long as something she liked better was around. I couldn't help thinking it would be a horrifically long wait. I went back to the bench in front of the theatre and slept; though my regular dreamless sleep ended up being interrupted by a dream.

It was cold and quiet in the house, which was like mine but had a few notable differences. Everyone was home, I knew instantaneously… but I was by myself. Ash was making himself look like an idiot by head banging hard enough to knock his headphones off, as one could usually count on Ash to do… but he wasn't in the room. I didn't know where he was. I just knew what he was doing. I also knew that Dad was at work, which was obvious even when I wasn't dreaming; that was all that he did. Mom was cooking and talking on the phone. Mirabelle… I couldn't think of Mirabelle the way I could think of the others. She was harder to grasp onto, and the mere thought of her made my eyes watery and made me sweat.

My dream-self was in the middle of the room. She was older than the real me was, probably twenty or twenty-one. She was lying on the floor, looking up, and crying softly. "I can still feel them," she said, "They can't leave me alone…" She then sat down and put her head in her hands. The room faded to black and white, and as it faded it also seemed to deaden my senses. My vision was foggy and as I pressed my hands against the window I discovered that I was completely numb. "What's the matter?" someone unseen asked me, "Don't you like it? I've given you something incredible… most people would really love a window into their future…" "I'm not going to be in the house at that age!" I yelled, "I'll be in college. And so will Ash. The house won't be…" I looked around, searching for the right word. "The house will be fine. You're lying. This isn't how things are going to be."

Then I woke up. I was quickly reminded of why I hated dreaming so much… they were never good. They were always extremely cryptic nightmares that wandered into my head whenever I wanted them least. And then they always refused to go away. I could still name every nightmare I had ever had in my life, but if you asked me for a pleasant dream I wouldn't be able to answer.

It was eight in the morning now. Exactly twelve hours since I had been thrown out. Any decent mother would have noticed by now… well, a decent mother wouldn't have let this happen at all. But even my mother should be here by now. Hell, even Ash should have noticed by now.

"Hey, sis."

I blinked. I could have sworn I heard Ash talking to me…

"Umm, Mahogany?" he sounded a little confused.

Man, that boy could take a cue. "Oh, hi Ash." I pretended that I had been distracted.

"Why didn't you call home?"

"No money."

"That isn't like you…" he sounded as if he was going to say more, but he stopped. "Whatever."

"Did you come to bring me home?"

"Yeah. Took the bus. Mom's busy."

The awkwardness of the conversation was bugging me. I wanted to actually talk to him. He may have been a stupid teenage kid, but for a couple of years I would be too… and I didn't know how long after that we'd be able to relate at all. "Mom's always busy," I replied.

He smiled faintly, "Yeah. We've got the best parents. Mom's from another planet and Dad's a workaholic. I bet we'll grow up to be really well adjusted." he paused, "Not that you're not already grown up, I guess."

"It's okay to think of me as a stupid kid…" I nearly laughed.

But he didn't seem to think it was okay. He quickly changed the subject, "Come on, the bus waits for no one."

He turned and started walking, not even looking to see if I was following him. I tapped his shoulder. "We're not running a marathon here, you know. I know that you want to get home but I'm exhausted. Could we slow down the pace a little?"

"Yeah, okay." He started taking slow, carefully planned steps. "I think you got Dad's personality." he said quietly, "Try not to work like him. You'll end up alright if you don't work like that."

"Don't forget things," I advised him, "Take some time to exit your world every once in awhile to say hi to us humans."

"Are you saying I'm like Mom?" he asked, his voice shocked and disgusted.

"You don't think you're like Dad, do you?"

"I was hoping I was adopted…"

I giggled. "Right, because you look nothing like the rest of us… you're horribly short, blond, and tan."

He snickered and caught his reflection in a store window. "I guess you're right. There's no hope for either of us."

I was reminded of my nightmare, but I laughed weakly for his sake. I couldn't manage a smile… his words felt too true.

When we got home Ash swiftly returned to his own little world, leaving me to fend for myself. I knew we couldn't really communicate for very long… it just would have been nice. Most of my friends had gotten over their rebellious, parent-hating phase and were extremely close to their families now. And I wanted that, too… I wanted family reunions and photo albums.

Mom was chatting busily on the phone. I said hello to her, but she didn't even acknowledge me. "Way to apologize, Mom," I muttered to myself. I stomped up the stairs, hoping it was loud enough to disturb her conversation. Then I sat in front of Mirabelle's door.

I have absolutely no idea what drove me to do that. I just know that I wanted to be a part of my family desperately, and probably just clung to the nearest piece. It wasn't as if I chose the person I'd have the most luck with. Mirabelle didn't even talk. And it wasn't like I actually tried to talk to her, either. I just sat outside her door. I guess I had nothing better to do.

And the weird thing is, I sat right there against her door for around two hours and I was never bored. I was actually pretty content, and I wondered if that wasn't enough of a family life to satisfy me. But then she tried to get out.

I felt a lot like I imagined she had felt those few times she had gone into my room only to discover she wasn't alone. It was the deer-in-headlights sort of thing, the pure shock and having your muscles freeze up… I understood why she hadn't said anything. I didn't think I could get anything out of my mouth, either.

She looked at me, eyes a little wider than normal. She looked like she was arguing with herself for a few seconds, and then she smiled. "Did I knock you down?" she asked, despite how obvious it was that she hadn't.

For a few seconds I just sort of gaped at her. I didn't know how long it was since I had heard her talk; she didn't even say, "Pass the salt, please." at dinner. If there was something she wanted across the table, Mirabelle got up and took it. I had always thought that if she could apply that attitude to anything else in her life, she would be a very admirable person. Even the way she was I almost admired her. There was something to be said about having almost complete control over people without opening your mouth.

She seemed to be over that, however, because she wasn't through talking yet. Her words sounded carefully chosen, but at the same time reckless. "If you can't even answer me…" she mimicked my words, putting a snobby glare on her face. I was kind of hurt that she thought of me that way.

"No. You didn't knock me down." I winced at the rude properties my voice was showing and wondered if they were always there.

"All right, then," she sounded cheerful and began to shut the door again.

"Wait."

She turned to look at me again. I was pretty determined. Now that she had spoken I didn't want to lose her. As long as she was talking she was my best hope of having anything to do with the people in my house.

"Yes?"

"Do you want to talk?" I was so stupid. What kind of an idiot asks someone if they want to talk? It's probably the worst question that exists--

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

I was shocked. I had been shocked all along, sure, but I was even more shocked. More importantly, I had no idea how to answer. And once I thought of an answer, I would have to come up with a way to make it sound less like a Hallmark card.

"Twins," I heard myself say, "let's talk about twins."

I smiled reassuringly, but she didn't look very reassured. In fact, she looked pretty shocked herself. Only… her expression had changed from somewhat pleasant back to her usual blank look. I hadn't said the right thing… or else she hadn't said what she meant to, which must have been "get lost".

"Let's not and say we did."

"Oh, I couldn't agree more!" I was resorting to sucking up, "Let's talk about something different."

She just shook her head. She obviously didn't want to talk about something different. She didn't want to talk anymore at all, I could tell. I had missed my chance.

"Let's talk some other time," she said, "I'm too busy trying to hurt myself. It's not working as well as it used to…" she paused to push one of her sleeves up, revealing burns all the way up her arm. "I need more matches. Have you got any? I found a couple downstairs but I used them burning our old pictures." She smiled winningly.

I was about to faint. I loved those pictures… and she had destroyed them! Wait, no, why was I worrying about the pictures? She had just showed me that she was destroying herself! She needed help! I tried to say something nice and reassuring, something that would stop her self-destructive habits… I couldn't think of what to say…

"'Bye then!" She shut the door and locked it. I was still completely dazed… I was torn between crying and trying to be strong. I was torn between hating her and feeling endlessly sorry for her…

I slumped back against the door. I wanted what had just happened out of my mind, as selfish as that was. I didn't want to see her bony arm covered in marks during my next nightmare, where it would surely show up as long as I remembered it. And I didn't want to talk to her again now that I knew why she avoided talking. Or at least now that I had guessed why. She wasn't trying to inflict more pain upon herself or look brave. She just didn't have any control over what came out.

It actually made sense… and what she did in her room made even more sense. I was amazed that I had never even guessed. I needed to tell someone… of course I did, she needed help… but whom could I tell? Mom didn't care; Dad wasn't home. I wondered if Ash could handle our family being any weirder.

"Hey, sis." His ability to appear when thought of was now becoming downright scary.

"Hi… listen… I was just talking to Mirabelle…"

"You still talk to her?" he interrupted, scrunching his face up as if talking about rolling around in a landfill.

"No, of course not. Who could talk to her? I was just, uh, sitting out here… and she opened the door… and… I guess we talked. Depends on how loosely you use the word."

"Oh. Did you talk about anything interesting?"

I nodded. "She hurts herself. And not just the whole cutting thing, a lot of fairly normal people go through that…"

"She burns herself." he finished for me, "Isn't that obvious?"

"You knew?"

"You didn't? I thought it was pretty obvious…"

"How did you know?"

"Well, she goes through matches like a pyromaniac…"

"Do you think she is one?"

"… And every once in awhile you can see a little burn… and you just know." He shrugged.

I was shocked that he was taking this so lightly. "She showed me her arm…" I squeaked, "it's absolutely covered in burns. She needs some aloe…"

"Right. So, did you talk about anything else?"

"Uh… what we should talk about," I replied, embarrassed.

"And did you decide on what to talk about?"

"She changed her mind. She doesn't want to talk to me… or anyone, I guess. I think she's afraid of what she might say."

"Yeah, well, if she wasn't so damn sensitive she'd just get over it like the rest of us."

"I'm afraid she might try to kill herself or something. And she showed me. It's a cry for help!"

"Maybe that's your problem, Mahogany. You think everything is a cry for help. Nothing can just be what it looks like. I really hope you never have kids. They'll end up sitting on a couch talking to a stranger about their problems…"

I wanted to say something really mean and spiteful. I wasn't overly good at that, though… especially not when I was this upset. "At least they won't end up dead."

I wanted to get away from him before I started to cry, so I walked away. It was good to quit while I was ahead, anyway… even though I felt behind. I couldn't help but think that maybe he was right, though. Maybe my family was messed up because of me.