Flawlessly Broken (Harry Styles)

Chapter 1

I stand on my bare feet and close my sketchbook. I gingerly run my fingers down the spiral spine, sighing lightly. I am satisfied with the new addition to my collection. This is exactly why I don't need pictures, the drawings are accurate enough. I shuffle over and set the book on the granite kitchen table next to a dozen bags of groceries. I didn't buy them; my parents did. That was part of the deal we had made last year. If I attend weekly therapy, and take my prescribed medications - they will pay for all my expenses; cable bill, food, mortgage, art supplies, therapy, medication, etc. They come at the beginning of every month, I dread it even more than therapy. It's always tense and awkward, mainly because I don't speak to them. They don't understand what I'm going through.

My parents think I'm getting better, they think all this therapy is helping. They're wrong. They're happy that I draw, but they'd probably stop me if they knew what I was drawing.

I feel so weak whenever I register the thought that I am twenty-five years old and I need my parents to provide for me. I am a disgrace.

Aside from me, Amanda, my therapist, is the only one who's read Daniel's suicide letter. I'm just not ready to show anyone else the real reason why he killed himself. His family thinks there was no letter. And they can keep on thinking that. I don't care if he was their son, their brother - that letter was addressed to me, and only me.

I tug on my worn out black combat boots and lace them up over my dark skinny jeans. My long, wavy, brown hair falls onto the black blouse that fits loosely around my chest; I don't do 'happy' colors anymore. Even my once bright blue eyes have gotten darker. I don't mind, I like it. It makes me look edgier, a feeling that I've grown to be attached to. It suits me well.

I head out the cherry colored front door into the spring air. I never lock my doors, for who would want my stuff anyway? I have nothing of any value. I begin to walk down the path from my house onto the sidewalk. I don't have a car, well I used to, but I sold it months ago. I needed the money after I quit my job. I wasn't stable enough to go to work - incompetent, I guess I am now, but it's laziness that's holding me back.

I walk to therapy, it's only a block down the street, and the exercise is beneficial. Every single time people stop and stare at me as I follow the same path I do each Wednesday afternoon. It's like I'm some walking freak show. I just don't understand why they seem surprised - frightened even - when they see me. They know I'm coming so why bother being astonished at something they are prepared for?

I keep my eyes looking straight ahead the entire time, as if I'm in some sort of trance. Couples whisper things to each other, they tug their children close to them, some go to the opposite side of the street, others walk faster. God, people act like I'm some sort of disease. I try to shake it off but the thoughts - the whispers - creep back into the corners of my mind. Antisocial. Crazy. Psycho. Deluded. Depressed.

I want to scream at them, tell them that I am not antisocial. I am not violent. I did not kill him, he killed himself. But I might as well take the blame for it because it was my fault. I am the reason why he was tired of living, tired of existing. Guilt hammers at my chest. It courses through my veins and pumps in my heart.

Temporary Avoidant Personality Disorder. I repeat the words over and over again in my head, until the deafening noise becomes only a faint whisper. I try to convince them all that I am strong, that I can take the lies they spread about me, but I can't. I constantly remind myself that I am as fragile as glass, I am breakable. I refuse to lie to myself because Daniel's lies are the reason that I became the person that I am now. He lied. He convinced me that he loved me. Daniel was the best liar I knew, for he lived a lie for an entire year, maybe even more.

I will never lie to someone I love, ever, because I know how much it hurts. I know how much damage it causes. But I don't love anyone so that problem will never arise. I expect the thought to comfort me, knowing that I will never have to lie to someone I love. But it doesn't. Instead, I find myself craving human interaction. The feeling is rare, and I am a little disappointed in myself. I thought I trained myself well, I thought I completely demolished any desire to associate with another person. I guess I was wrong, maybe I haven't achieved total destruction and isolation just yet. Yet.