It kills me not to know this but I've all but just forgotten what the colors of her eyes were, and her scars and how she got them.

I close my eyes and look across my backyard. It's been years since I saw her, and I miss her more each day.

My name is Romischen Beillshmidt, and this is my life.

I wake up every day, and my head hurts.

I take my razor, and I cut until my hands shake.

I bandage and clean the areas- where they are depends on what I wear that day. Usually it's my wrists, but occasionally I go to town on my inner thighs and ankles.

I eat a small breakfast, and then I grab my bag.

I leave the house knowing that no-one there cares whether I get to school alright.

I get to the campus, and I ignore the others. If I say nothing, will they leave me alone?

I get to my locker, I shove some things inside, I get some things out, and then I head to that special place.

It's upstairs, in a little corner with bad lighting and a faint smell of marijuana. It's dirty, out of the way, and I love it. I can be alone there. Well, until the druggies show up. Then I leave. I may be an outcast, but I'm not about to ruin my life.

And then I go to class. I sit down in the back, I take notes while pretending I don't care, I keep my head low and out of the way. I never get called on.

I repeat the steps through the rest of my classes. Instead of lunch, I hide in the library and do homework.

When I walk in, the librarian gives me a dirty look. This is her place and I'm intruding. She doesn't want me here. Not with my 'silly' hat. Not with my big blue hoodie. Not with my messy blonde hair. Not with my glasses, the ones that Luddy got me two years ago. I'm not welcome, but she's got nothing against me to stop me from coming in.

After lunch, I head to class. I do the same things.

When school is over, I head to my job. It's at that little French café, the one my brother's friend owns.

I go inside, I mumble a 'hi' at Francis, and I head to the back. I remove my hoodie and I tie the apron on at my waist. I clip the little name tag onto my Die Atzen t-shirt, and I get to work.

I'm a waiter. I talk to people, they notice my German accent, I nod and smile politely. It's an International café, and it's honestly the most popular one. But that might be because Francis is young and French and cool and doesn't tell if you get wine when you're underage. He has a son, a French-Canadian named Matthew, and an ex-husband who has an American son named Alfred, and they both go to my school. Mattie's okay, I guess, but he has no presence.

After I work for a few blissful hours, I say goodbye and walk home. I have tons of homework, but can deal with it after.

I get in, I gag at the smell of beer, and head to the kitchen. If I'm lucky, Dad's not there. Today he isn't. He's in the living room, watching German porn.

I make a tiny dinner as quietly as I can, and head upstairs. I go to my room and eat while listening to my iPod, the one that Gil got me for my birthday three Christmas' ago, and do homework.

I try to be as quiet as possible. I know that Gil and Luddy can't wait for my 18th birthday- next year in July. That's when they can get me out of this hellhole.

I'm a junior this year. Two years left in that hellhole.

It's October. Here in Florida, it's just now getting chilly. Not as cold as my home country, but still cold.

I was born in Germany. We moved to Austria when I was 6, and moved to America when I was 9. My dad became an alcoholic when I was 11. I'm 17 now, and it's all become routine. Monotone. Monochrome.

After I finish homework and eating, I creep downstairs and put my plate in the dirty sink.

My dad has changed to futball. He's screaming at the television, and I have to admit. I'm scared when he gets like this.

I pause for just a moment in the doorway of the kitchen, and a hand flutters up to my side, where the discolored skin is. It still hurts.

I turn and go back up the stairs. I avoid all of the creaky steps. If I make one bad move, I'm done.

No questions asked.

I make it all the way upstairs before slowly closing the door. I catch sight of myself in the mirror across from my door. My dark blue eyes are tired, with deep shadows beneath them. My hair is messy, and my lips are swollen. I raise a hand to my cheeks to find that they are wet. When did I start crying?

I close my eyes and slide to the floor, leaning against the door. This is my life.

/So~ How was it? Thank "Savior" by Rise Against for the plot bunny. I know I haven't updated the other stories in FOR-FUCKING-EVER, but….. Yeah. So, this should have another chapter soon~