Under a Silent Moon

5

Chapter Five: Hatred and Hopelessness

LANA

I wake the next morning with a groan as the sun filters in through the blinds of my bedroom window. It's always morning that I contemplate death the most. The beginning of a new day should be like a renaissance of some sort, but for me, it just signals the start of another twenty-four hours I have to survive.

After hitting the snooze button on my phone far too many times, I throw my feet over the edge of my bed and pad across the hardwood floor, violently yanking my blinds shut so that not even a sliver of the sun can sneak its way in. Dust particles fall from the curtains who haven't seen any action since Blake forced them open every morning for a solid two weeks in an attempt to motivate me into getting to school on time. With him out of the house, it will be a wonder if I make it to school at all.

Amanda is already balancing her soccer ball from her right foot to her left as she chews on a piece of toast in the kitchen. Mom waves a word of goodbye as we cross paths. She's got her perfectly ironed aquamarine scrubs on, her bag slinging off one shoulder and an overflowing cup of coffee in the opposite hand. As she slips her shoes on at the entryway, she asks, "Do you have book club after school today?"

"I quit book club three months ago," I remind her.

She looks at me as if this is the first she's hearing of my departure from yet another school activity.

"You know, it would do you good to get involved more. Make friends," she tells me, her eyes glaring judgmentally at me from over her glasses. "Maybe you could join soccer. I'm sure Amanda could get you on the team."

When Amanda sees me, she rolls her eyes and shoots the ball in my direction. I side-step from its path.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," she greets cynically as Mom closes the door behind her with a thud. "I wouldn't get your hopes up with joining the soccer team. We already have enough pity players."

I ignore her comments as I head to the kitchen, pouring a glass of orange juice as my breakfast.

After I trudge through my morning routine (which consists of throwing on a hoodie and jeans and splashing water on my face) I hear Amanda leave for school with a friend that lives down the street. Once again, I'm going to be late.

I try to slip into my American History II class without making a scene of my tardy arrival, but the instructor has had it in for me since the first day of class.

"If you miss too many days, Miss Carina, you're going to be held back. Are you interested in pursuing yet another year of eleventh grade?" His snarky, condescending tone lights my rage aflame.

The response that I keep to myself is, "I won't be alive long enough to repeat this god forsaken grade." Having that thought relaxes me to the point where the redness of my cheeks fade and I pull the colossal textbook from my bag, placing it on my desk as silently as possible.

Carly is in the seat next to me, eyeing me with exaggerated discernment. I roll my eyes in her direction, waving away any comments before she even makes them. Later on in the period, when we are working on section review questions in partners, she says, "You really want to be at the top of Mr. Hubert's shit list, don't you." It's a declarative statement, not a question.

"Mornings are hard," I say, feeling exasperated. I can tell she thinks I'm being dramatic, but there's so much truth behind my words that it physically pains me. I can tangibly feel the weight that presses my body deeper into my bed every morning, leaving a deep, visible indentation of my small frame in the mattress. On occasion, it's simply more than I can bear. On other occasions, like today, I am responsible because that's how Blake would want me to be. During the days where I have no motivation to do anything at all, my apathy eclipses my desire to make my brother proud. Those days are the deadliest. So far I've persevered through those days.