(formally scream, baby!)
[Name] [Surname] thought the worst has already come; being the town's laughing stock and dealing with declining mental health, [Name] already spent her junior year a volatile mess of tears, mucus and anger. The heartache sti...
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01: The Day After
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YOU WAKE THE NEXT DAY in a cold sweat on the floor of your room. Your landline lays next to you, the familiar dead sound filling the air, and you groan. You pick your head up and wipe your face, feeling the dried tears and dried snot. Your gaze shoots up to your bedside table and frown, realizing you are still on time for school. Knowing you can't miss today, you reluctantly stand up. Only then do you realize the window to your room is closed.
You pause, eying it in disdain, but quickly push it away as paranoia. After last night, there was no telling how your brain would mess with you. You stare into your mirror; your face is a mess, with sunken eyes and torn lips, and your body is uncontrollably shaking.
You are clenching your fists, willing yourself to stay still. You need to be logical here. Act normal. If what happened last night wasn't some cruel prank, that makes you an accomplice to murder. You laugh a crazed and broken sound, looking at the image in that mirror. It's unrecognizable.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" You don't realize what you're doing until it's too late; the loud crack is followed by scorching pain that leads to a rippling scream. You pull your hand to your chest, cradling it as blood gushes, staining your clothes. Broken pieces of your mirror scatter across the floor, with fragments now lodged in your hand.
You stand there disconnected from everything. The blood doesn't even look like yours, and you think maybe it isn't yours until your mom's worried voice cuts through the atmosphere. "Hun, what happened?" She's already holding your hand, inspecting it while still in scrubs. "Was this- Is this about-"
"What?" Your voice is hoarse, and it's painful to speak.
Your mom pulls you to your bed and have you sit down before venturing into your shared bathroom, bringing back the first aid kit. She kneels in front of you and starts picking out the glass. It should hurt, but it doesn't. You're just numb.
"What were you trying to say?" You ask again, trying to cling to something human — something other than the reality that is now your life.
