I hate this room. With the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. The walls are a obnoxious pale pink color and plastered with various posters of boy bands, movie promos, and art class projects. The bed is unkempt and unmade, the floral printed comforter strewn lazily on the mattress. The vanity on the far wall is peppered with various stains from mascaras, nail polish, concealer, and lip stain--the only remnants of the distant revelation that, yes I Leah Clearwater, was once pretty and had once cared about her appearance when she had someone to remind her about that shit.
There's a sandalwood dresser drawer pushed up against the wall, it's contents are slim, and is the only clue that fashion driven, headstrong, popular Leah died a long, long time ago.
I'm splayed out on the corner of the bed, my legs dangling off the edge, almost touching the carpeted floor. My eyes are cold, empty, and desolate--barren. Usually my eyes are filled with anger, spite, or bitterness. But, when I'm alone, I allow those ever-present emotions to flee from my eyes. It's a little ominous, really. It reminds me of a store, closing up for the remainder of the night each shutter being closed and locked away for safe keeping until the morning dawns.
I never let my family see me like this, it's too painful for there uncorrupted minds to grasp how much pain I'm really in. It's the most excruciating time for me, when I'm teetering on the edge of unconsciousness and about to be consumed by the dark abyss of sleep. I'm almost there, and then something pops into my mind; a lone festering thought rolling around in my brain until they've all gathered into the forefront of my thoughts and the 'what-ifs' descend.
There festering viscous little monsters, those what-ifs. Not surrendering until they've caused a sufficient amount of damage to my already fragile emotional state. They flood ever crack and crevice of your mind and there fun begins: What if, you were nicer, prettier, normal, more like Emily? What if, you weren't a murderer? What if, you didn't kill your father? What if, Sam wanted you? What if, you weren't a rarity, a novelty, a freak? What if, you were different?
The only coherent though that I can muster up in response is: Things would've been better.