Part one of two. I do not own anything.

There has always been a standing mirror in the corner of my room, my mothers mother. Curved to an oval shape. My room.

I can't see myself in it because the lights are off; purposely. I can see the reflection of the trees outside though, the curtain's up so it's the only light source. Again; purposely.

The same stream of light from the window shines to the small drops of dried blood on the ground from maybe, 6 nights ago? Time doesn't matter though does it? Funny how that is, of all places the blood could have dropped to it's where the light shows it.

My hands are shaking from the want to touch my face, but I know the reaction I will have. It's always the same, the same...

Soda's in his own room now, he switched when I demanded it.

The wet towel under me is starting to smell, more of a dampness. It's happened everynight so far. But it's better than the alternative though, I know that. And maybe I really don't appreciate that enough; it was Darry's idea.

My skin burns, literally. My mind hurts, mentally. My heart aches... Physically? Can that happen? I guess so.

I havent really left the house since it happened. You wouldn't understand.

Did you know Steve asked me himself once to go out with him and Soda? He actually asked me himself. That's how desperate they were. Well, 'are' I suppose.

I read books sometimes with the pratogonist having a tragic past they would overcome. I mean who cares what people think? And that's the attitude I had the first time I left the house. But people are cruel, people stared. Blatantly stared. I cried when I got home that night; well until I realized the salt from my tears burned the whole way down my face.

Ever had a cut and accidentally got salt water in it? Don't try it if you haven't. Really, don't.

My face is bleeding. The grunts coming from my mouth are embarrassing, believe me. Darry and Soda don't check on me anymore. Good or bad, I don't know. They'd had enough after about say, two months?

The skin is peeling even more, my hands are still yearning to touch.

I swing my legs to the side preparing to get out of bed. I can't lean back or the skin of my back will squish together causing it all to rub, that was one of the first things I learnt.

I didn't cut myself by the way, not my wrists or anything if you were wondering.

I take my time walking to the next room over. Even I can tell my steps are hesitant; soft. I'm not sure if this is a routine or not, how many time does it take to make something a routine? Maybe it's not about the amount of times, but whether you prepare for it or not. Know that it's a necessity.

This is routine.

The bathroom, washroom, shit dispenser, place for washing hands, showering, all hygiene purposes?

... I'm stalling.

The bathroom door is already open. I prepared. But yet I stand at the doorway, just stand, hand on the door frame just under the light switch.

I switch it on and close my eyes slowly, although immediately. Routine.

I finally give in, letting my hands feather light skim across my face. Feel every bump, every flap of skin, every burn. Sigh, every burn.

My eyes are open, I honestly didn't even notice. I put my index finder right at the ridge of my eye to stop the tears from trailing down my face. Like I said, it fucking stings.

I have a wet towel prepared, and a wash cloth. Never too many, right?

I pick up the towel slowly, it's green. It's refreshing on my hands oddly enough, the burns aren't as bad so it doesn't sting too bad, too bad.

There are pain killers in the cupboard, they don't help though do they? I reach for them anyway. I think it's mentally, the relief I feel of thinking something could actually help me.

I scream as salts wash over my face.

There's not really any salts though, it's the burns. They hurt enough naturally. Guess I just wished they needed a little extra something to start bleeding.

Soda's at the door before I realize. I see him in the mirror reflection, my head whipping around to face his sunken in eyes. The burns on my neck rip open.

"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" I notice his tears that come right away, not falling though. He's not that stupid. I bet his face doesn't sting when he cries. He has no reason to cry. Why would he have reason to cry? He looks around the bathroom, never looking at my face. He stares at the ground a long time, there are spots of blood smeared into the floor mat.

He mumbles so quietly, so, so quiet. I'm not even sure if words came out his mouth, or whether he said it in his head and just moved his lips out of habit. Soda was always one to say what was on his mind, not hold it in.

I pick up the pain killers that had fallen to the floor, I hadnt noticed to be honest. Darry's snoring the other wall of the bathroom. He's more stressed now, odd hey?

I softly pat the towel to my face. It's a bit numb I suppose.

Is it selfish to feel as though I was the only one affected, the only one burned?