Everything is spinning, blurring together and becoming beautiful again. This soul did not belong in heaven, but in purgatory, waiting for the time when it is healed and whole again. I am the wind in your face, the paint in your toes, and the lies in your mouth. I am the girl hiding in the corner, too afraid to play. The whispers and secrets that others speak get caught in the air; I am their victim and the next mind up for auction.

I am invisible. I walk through empty corridors filled with faces. I walk to the side, reading pages filled with blank spaces. The nonsense spoken in school classrooms fills my ears, not staying in my head. The fog in my head keeps my judgment slow, my movements obvious. These legs walk out the door, noticeable to anybody that looks. But nobody ever looks.

My father's house in the hills awaits me. The door is still unlocked, daddy dearest forgetting to lock it on his way in to work. It is 1:45; I should be sitting in my fourth hour by now, learning about the Gilded Age and Andrew Carnegie. Into the house I go, pausing at the coat hangers outside the laundry room to take off my blue wool coat and mittens. Winter is here with a vengeance. Once I am past the kitchen and up the stairs, I stop to pause at a picture of myself and Toby, taken when he was just a baby. I was six years old when it was taken, my life still filled with coloring and Barbie dolls. I still had a whole family to be with. A mother, though mostly absent from home; a father, just beginning his business. This body continues up the stairs, just a shell of memories and hurt.

Everything could be perfect again, just like it once was. I want to be whole, and real, and perfect. I cannot be perfect, I cannot be the best. I never was, and I never will be. And that is what I promise. Toby can be perfect. Toby is perfect. His eyes are bright and wondrous at the world, not scarred by evil and hate. He got student of the month for his sixth grade class, his picture is hanging outside the office walls.

My shoes are leaving prints in the carpet; it was just cleaned last week. My door is still closed and my hand reaches out to open it. My fingers curl around the handle, slowly turning it to the left. My disaster awaits me. I really need to do laundry. Clothes are strewn haphazardly across the floor; library books cover my bed instead of a blanket. The walls stare back at me an ugly dark red, almost black; it is the same color as the blood traveling back to my heart, dead in my veins.

I can hear the door open downstairs, two voices talking, laughing, unaware of my presence. One is dad's voice; the other is his flavor of the month. In February she was blonde, in March he was a ginger, and now in April, what awaits me? Will it be male or female, what color hair, the same age as me again? After Mom left Dad, he decided that he was also attracted to men. That announcement through everyone through more of a loop than the divorce announcement did.

I crawl into my bed, push most of the books to the side, and pick my blanket up off the floor. I wrap it around my body, praying that it will warm me up. I find a book to read and surround myself with its 12-point, Courier New fortress. Books are the only thing that I have left; they are my only and last hope for sanity. They give me a break from reality and a little time to breathe. Books always keep their promises; they don't hide behind a veil of light, and always tell me the truth. They are my only real friend. As I read through the text, my mind starts to wander. It remembers the feeling of sun in my face and joy in my heart. I want that again. I can't have that again.

My mind drifted further off than I thought. When I re-opened my eyes, it was eight at night. My mouth was dry and my stomach rumbling. I must stay strong. My eyes are weary and still tired, but my back was happy for the break. I walked back through the hallway and down the stairs, almost falling on the last step. I stroll into the kitchen and get a glass from the cabinet next the stove. Dad and his friend have left again. As I go to the sink to fill it with water, I can hear the voices of faded memories. First it was only the voices, but the visuals soon followed.

Mom was walking through the kitchen, Dad right behind her. They made a bee-line for the family room, anxious to sit down and say what needed to be said as soon as possible. They had been divorced for a few years already. I was still standing by the sink, watching as my fifteen year old self hid behind the stairwell to listen; even then I knew it was about me. At first their voices were quiet, just barely above a whisper. I had to strain my ears to listen, and even then I only caught a little bit. Their voices grew, though, and yelling followed.

Mom knew I was losing weight. She had spent enough time and money for a psychology degree and around her patients to know what this was. My father refused to believe her. I was still his precious angel, even if I had lost a few pounds. I wasn't sick, he argued, just eating healthy and exercising a little more. He was blind, but he won the battle. Nothing was wrong with me. Then I jolt back to reality.

I turn on the tap and fill up my glass. I may as well take my crazy candies. They are supposed to keep my mind sane, away from dangerous thoughts. I guess they need to up the dosage.

so, I've decided to edit the first couple of chapter, so updates will be few ans far between for a little bit.