She glared up there at her ceiling, an admittedly depressed expression on her face. Her name was Meg Griffin and those who had seen her agreed she had seen better days, her hair was messy, there were bags under her eyes and her clothes had might-as-well changed color. Even her room matched her less than ideal condition, it was filled from corner to corner with scattered clothes, plates, and empty water bottles.
Though she just didn't care about the condition of her room. There was something inside her that she paid a lot more attention to. She was washed in deep gut-feeling that chained her to her bed and tired her, but what point was there to sleeping anyway she would've just woken up tired again.
Her eyes stung, her eyelids felt heavy and she couldn't have moved even if she had any interest to. The brunette's bloodshot eyes went from garbage pile to garbage pile, maybe she belonged with those pieces of trash, she sure as hell felt like it. Maybe that was why they hated her.
