I opened my eyes. The sunlight bathed my skin as I lay on my side. I hated sunny days. I just don't feel like getting out of bed to do anything anymore. My body is tired and my mind is overloaded with misery. It has been like this for at least the past two years.
I finally get out of bed as I glance at the clock. "Damn it!" I yelled by accident. Dad won't be happy about this. Although I was on vacation he still wanted me to get up before ten o'clock and it was almost midday!
I headed to the bathroom and took a quick shower. After that I quickly dress a pair of jeans and a Pink Floyd tee and check myself out in the mirror. I look at the scars in my arm with discontent and dread. Perhaps it would end if I told dad. But I couldn't. He would be so disappointed at me. I grab a flannel shirt and put it on to cover my arms.
Closing the door behind me I ran down the stairs, only to be met by a disapproving glare by my father.
"You are late, Kristen." he said with his European accent followed by a soft sigh.
"Sorry I slept in," I quickly replied "It won't happen again."
"I'm sure it won't" he said with a unexpected calm voice "Well... what would you like for lunch?"
I wasn't really hungry. So I just remained silent while looking down and playing with my hands. I was diagnosed with a slight form of Asperger's Syndrome when I was eleven so this was one of the few things he didn't find offensive.
"Yes?" dad said with more emphasis than before.
"Anything will do it, father" I say as I walk towards the dining room without meeting his eyes completely "Really."
He prepared me some chicken with mashed potatos and orange juice to go with it. It was incredibly tasty like always. Hannibal Lecter was not only known for being a great psychiatrist but also for being an excelente cook.
Sitting in front of me with an unreadable expression, he said "Sweetheart, we need to talk."