[trigger warning]
The cool glass of the cab window presses against my scalp as I watch the raindrops race across the surface. Sighing, I blearily raise my head to look over at my mother.
"Are we almost there?"
"Just a few more minutes, miss," The cabbie's Northern accent cuts across my American. I sigh again and trace my finger across the condensation.
My mother awkwardly pats my shoulder. "It's alright, Mara," she says. "We'll get settled in in no time."
That's not the point! My inner voice shrieks. I don't want to get settled in! I want to go home!
The cab slows to a stop in front of the Powell Estate and I leap out onto the wet pavement, stretching my back. I pick up the suitcase that my mother flops in my general direction from the back of the cab. It bumps over the cracks in the pavement and one wheel splashes into a puddle, spraying the back of my legs.
My new room is bland, with cream walls and soft beige carpet. One lonely window faces the street. I roll out my sleeping bag and feel like crying.
The days roll by agonizingly slowly, each supper at the card table in the kitchen lowering my hopes for my new life in England. I like to look out the window and watch the winter rainfall as I eat.
"Cheer up, sweetheart," my mother says. I snort silently, pushing the food around on my plate.
"I don't have any friends here. I know literally no one, Mom."
"Well, you didn't have any friends to start with. I'm sure you'll make some friends this time. Anyways, with my new job here my wages are higher, so we'll be living better." I refrain from snorting. I know all about her cash-guzzling little habit. I know she tries to hide them, but I've seen the bottles, and I've smelt the alcohol on her.
More comfortably, maybe. Not better, I don't think.
Punk rock blares in through my headphones, soothing my grated nerves. Today is a Friday night, so she'll probably be gone again. She tends to go out and do adult things more often since Dad and Lies.
The pencil scrapes across the paper in an almost calming manner, the outline of a cat beginning to form. Guitar riffs and drums crash in my eardrums, fueling my intense dissatisfaction with my surroundings, and it explodes outwards.
I trace my finger over the dent my poor sketchbook has left in the maddeningly off-white wall, sighing as I think about how my mother will react. The last time we moved and I dented the wall with my new skateboard, she practically went ballistic.
The clock ticks on, rolling past nine o'clock, past ten o'clock, until it's nearly 1 AM and my eyelids and heart have grown heavy. The sense of loneliness presses down on my chest, impeding my breathing and making it hard to relax. A tear slips out of my eye.
Almost all my life, I've been alone. The loneliness is a part of me now, weighing down on me like an elephant on my chest. You have no idea what it's like to have absolutely no one, to have nobody miss you when you're gone and worst of all, no one to open up to. I feel like there's a balloon of bad feelings in my stomach, and it's slowly swelling up.
More tears stream down my cheeks. I always tend to cry when I'm tired. I cry over the stupidest things- I'm actually really pathetic. I'd never be able to stand up for something; I'd be in the back corner sniveling. My hands fumble with the latch on the tiny wooden box stashed in my bag.
I pull out a thin streak of silver, its sharp edge glinting tantalizingly in the lamplight. The pain it brings me is a relief- the lines of fire across my wrists will make me strong. The physical pain makes it easier to forget the intangible.
I survey my work- twelve neat strokes dance across my left wrist, leaking red. A tissue mops up the blood quickly, and the blade is back in its little box and stowed away before anyone could find out what happened. The fresh red lines contrast rather nicely with my dark tan skin and the white lines already crisscrossing the canvas.
A giddy feeling rises in my chest, bursting into faint giggles. The pain feels delicious- like a runner's high. I clutch my now-bandaged wrist to my chest and sink into the fluttery feeling in my body. When I feel like this, I'm free.
The next morning is a doozy. I drag my stiff body out of its cocoon, crawling down the stairs only to find my mother lying on the kitchen floor, out cold. I heave a sigh when I see the half-empty scotch bottle on the counter.
I kind of feel for her, though- after Lies, we were all damaged. While she flees to her alcohol, I flee to my blade. Something like that could wreck a person if you let it. And Dad- well, Dad didn't help much.
After I manage to get my hungover mother onto the couch and covered with the quilt Grandma sent us, I pull on a hoodie and go for a walk to clear my head. I look at the Christmas lights strung up all over the Estate- I forgot, tomorrow's Christmas.
The shops down the street display a variety of possible Christmas presents, so I head down the alley behind the estate. I know that my mother loves scarves. Her absolute favorite is the one I made for her in sixth grade- about two years ago. She wears it a lot to work and meetings.
Suddenly, a whooshing, grating noise drags me from my scarf-related pondering. My head jerks upwards towards the sound. I scramble behind a garbage bin as two people come running out towards the sound.
A blue light zaps across the air, an old-timey police call box descending from the skies. Before I have a chance to comprehend what had just happened, it swerves towards me, bumping into a service van and smashing into the trash bins. I duck to barely avoid getting slammed in the head by its base.
The peculiar box touches down, the doors swinging open to reveal a skinny man in a leather jacket. My eyebrows furrow together in confusion.
The man speaks. "Here we are, then, London, Earth, the solar system, isn't it?" He peers at the sky before coming face-to-face with one of the people, a middle-aged blonde lady. "Jackie, Mickey, blimey!"
Jackie and Mickey glance at each other questioningly before the man goes on. "No, no, no, no. There was something I had to tell you. Something important. What was it?"
He grabs their shoulders, leaning heavily on them as if for support. "No, hold on. Hold on. Hold on. Sh-sh-sh."
"Oh!" The man's exclamation makes me almost flinch. "I know. Merry Christmas!"
Then the man goes boneless and flops down onto the wet pavement. A young blonde woman sticks her head out of the weird blue box, but by then I've turned tail and scurried back inside the flat.
I sit down on my bedroom floor, warily watching the box through my window. "What. The. Hell. Just. Happened." I take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Maybe it's an optical illusion. Oh, I know. It's those new depression meds you're on. They're making you hallucinate about... flying blue boxes." I deep breathe some more. "Yeah, that's it. It was an optical illusion, like a magic trick, but my new meds made my subconscious screw it up and so it looked real crazy to me."
Still, something about the whole situation is just a bit fishy.
The mug of hot chocolate warms my hands as I sit on the edge of the card table, watching my mother. She still lies motionless, sprawled across the couch. I pull the quilt further up over her limp body and sigh brokenly.
A tear slips down my cheek, splashing into my hot chocolate. I whimper into my hand, cradling my face as I cry. I set down the chocolate and fumble for my razor, the fiery blood streaking down my arm.
The cold tile of the washroom presses into my body as I curl into a helpless ball, tears mingling with blood into a puddle. This was supposed to be Christmas.
I dig the blade further down into my skin, fueled by the anger coursing through my veins. A scream fights to free itself from my throat; I swallow it.
Suddenly, my arms and legs move of their own accord, heaving me upright. I jerk my arms back- or rather, try to. They don't move. My mind whirls, trapped inside my body. I try to scream mut my throat doesn't react.
My legs haul me out the door and onto the street, the chilly winter air hitting my bare legs. My too-big Army t-shirt flaps against my stomach from the clean cool breeze as I ascend a staircase alongside other pajama-clad residents of the estate.
My eyes spin, searching for my mother. She's not among the herds of zombies like myself, all parading upwards, but neither are half of the estate residence. I'd furrow my eyebrows in confusion if I could.
I'm marched to the edge of the estate roof and stop.
I stand there, my t-shirt fluttering in the breeze, waiting. Nothing much seems to happen, and a horrible feeling rises in my chest. I'm going to jump, aren't I?
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