this is a multi-chap out of what i am now going to call my new-and-improved stage, in which my writing doesn't suck as badly as it used to (i hope).
todd/oc, for the eighty thousand people who asked for a todd story.
triggers: cutting and depression, but it will get better
When she gets home, the rage burns itself into full force. She sees red spots bursting in front of her eyes, and clenches her fists against the pain coursing through her veins.
She runs for the bathroom, for the one thing that can save her. She bypasses the crystal bottle of pills next to the sink (sure, she's ready to be dead, but that won't bring any extra pain, and she deserves pain), and pulls her knife out of a locked drawer, quickly dragging it across her wrist, where yet another bleeding cut joins the dozens that are already resting there, criss-crossing her skin like webs symbolizing her depression.
Alani Dawson examines her body in the full-length mirror hanging on her wall. Her pale skin, marred by faint red scars, clings to her brittle bones. Her curling auburn hair, once so full of body and life, now hangs limply down her back, the locks oily and thin. Alani rubs a few strands between her fingers, cringing at their coarse texture. Her blue eyes that, when she was young, sparkled with joy, now stare blankly into space, dull and desperate and full of heartache.
Let's not get started on her heart.
Alani's mind immediately sails through flashbacks, as it does every time she looks into the silver-plated reflective glass.
She remembers the day when she was five, standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for her daddy to come home. Only he never did, and his closet was empty and his nice dress shoes had disappeared from the closet by the door.
She remembers the day when she was ten, waiting for her so-called best friend Kristen Gregory. Only Kristen walked out of school with a group of girls who they'd both sworn they'd never be friends with, and she'd never looked back. That night, Alani had called her four times, wondering if maybe Kristen had forgotten, and finally she picked up. "Don't talk to me again, alright?" came her voice, and a sharp click as Kristen hung up.
She remembers the day when she was thirteen, ecstatic because a popular boy had asked her out, a popular boy who she'd had a crush on since she'd been in his group in art in sixth grade. Derrick Harrington was his name, and he was a year older, and he was repeating eighth grade art because he'd failed it before. He was bad and forbidden and everything she shouldn't want but she did. She did.
But she hadn't gotten it, because the second she said yes, he'd muttered that he'd only asked on a dare and then ran.
That night, she'd gotten home and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried, cried her heart out for all the things that she'd wanted and dreamed of and couldn't have, and all the things she hadn't wanted, hadn't dreamed of, that had happened anyway.
That was when Alani had first dragged the edge of the knife across her tender skin. She'd gritted her teeth against the pain, tensed all her muscles. It wasn't as bad as she'd thought, and soon, it became routine. She did it every night, the only thing in her life that she could control, that she could keep consistent.
And it's retribution for her mistakes. Her father would never have left if Alani had showed him more affection, gave in when he wanted to hurt her. Kristen would never have left if Alani had agreed with her about more things, had stood by her. And Derrick Harrington would never have left if Alani had been prettier, more beautiful.
Alani wishes she could just have her family back, have Kristen back, have Derrick Harrington back (not that she'd ever had him in the first place, except in her dreams).
If she was one of those girls, her life wouldn't be such as epic mess.
More than anything, Alani Dawson wants to be popular and perfect.