Chapter 5: Losing Touch With Reality

Wednesday, June 11th, 2005

What a horrible day yesterday was. Mom was mad at me all day, and I was mad at her. Ever since I blew up at her just two days ago, she's been on me about everything! What is wrong with the world? I was bedridden all day yesterday, at her orders. It isn't even worth talking about. I feel no better. The thing is, everything has been horrible since I came home. She pretty much ignored me the whole day, too, except when she brought me my meals. And then, she just commanded me to eat and left.

At least today, she's letting me out of bed. I am now allowed to sit, not stand, though. This is probably her way of punishing me.

"-na. Katrina!"

I snap out of my thinking zone. "What?"

I turn to my doorway. My mother stands in it. Her eyes pass over me worriedly. "Are you all right, honey?"

I blink. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" There's a noticeable bite in my voice.

She shakes her head. "You're just getting over being sick, for one thing. Can you hear all right? Can I get you anything?" Her voice has lost its sharp edge from yesterday. She must be trying to make up.

She goes towards me, and I flinch. I bat her hand away as she extends it towards my face. "Of course I can. I was just out of it for a second. Just…leave me alone. I'm typing. I'm just getting over being sick, and I want to be alone. Shoo."

She frowns angrily. "I want to start things out the right way, all right? You have to put forth the effort too."

"I don't want to talk to you." I say, struggling to keep in my anger at being disturbed.

"Don't you dare speak to me like that."

I glare at her. "What do you want? Get it over with."

"I was going to ask you if you'd like to go with me to my medical school campus to meet my professors, but now, I don't really think I want you there if you're going to be like this. They'd not be impressed by your behavior."

"Good thing you don't want me to come. You saved me the trouble of refusing." I turn back to my computer and my second original story.

"Kat—look at me now." I don't, and she moves closer to me again to try to make me. I actually stand up when she tries. I'm about an inch taller than my mom. I love to glower over her. She says sadly, gazing a little bit up into my eyes, "Ever since we met Margaret, you've been horrible to me, and I'd like to know why. Your being sick is no excuse for this attitude."

I make a show of rolling my eyes. "Are you done, or can I write?"

She stares at me, speechless, then turns and flounces out of the room. I watch her go in disgust. When did she get this annoying? I'm sure she was much more natural before Japan. Same with like, everyone. Mom invited the Johnson's, our neighbors, over when I came yesterday when I was bedridden, and the two adults and their son Bobby were all so frustrating, with their cheerful jabber. People drive me crazy. I couldn't get away and I found myself going panther several times. I hate people now. Living a nightmare for a whole nine months really makes you anti-social.

I sit back down at my computer, and begin to type the next phase of my 9th chapter. Now, if I remember correctly, it was around this time that I discovered my cat eyes. I was so scared about that. Yes, capture the fear. Put it down on paper.

Yes, I've decided to take the expert's advice and write. I finally can truly agree with what they're talking about. Writing frees me. I can let out all my anger and guilt. Yes, it's true. The computer is the only one that understands me. But that will soon change.

The sound of my typing mixes with the splatter of rain outside my window in a soothing, rhythmic harmony, that seems to calm my nerves. This is not really a sequel to my original story at all (the story that landed me in Japan), as I keep telling everyone. This is my own autobiography. I have to tell someone about that horrible experience so I can heal. I will make sure the world will share this suffering. I will give them a fantasy work like no other. In my words of truth, I will let them know what just one girl had to go through by herself. And then they'll see how hard I have it. I have a right to be cranky. God, it's a wonder I haven't gone completely nuts and massacred the neighborhood or some such thing.

I hear my mom's car start up and back out of the driveway. She has got to get a life. Always interrupting me, always trying to get me to go her way, what is with parents? Doesn't she have more to worry about than just failing to understand me?

I type for about 40 minutes, feeling more and more rage take over my mind. Irrational thoughts chase through my mind. I finish a whole 3 chapters. Finally when I begin to record the 18th chapter, I recall that after Hiei had decided to take me out of the spirit world and we hijacked that car, I remember seeing Spinacheli in the car next to mine. Invariably, it sets me thinking on Mom again. 'Meet my professors, Katrina. They want to meet you.' Blah, blah. I'm past doing something that incredibly stupid. I flip back to the 17th chapter. I had every intention of ending Beauty's life with those radishes. There's no way anyone will ever want to meet me now. I am a killer. A KILLER! KILLERS DON'T PLEASE PEOPLE, DAMN IT! KILLERS DON'T MAKE FRIENDS!

To my horror, tears start streaming down my face as soon as I think that awful, evil word. Killer. I gasp and try to suck up my emotions, but I just break apart and start wailing. I hide my face in my hands. I can't take it anymore. I've become an evil, evil killer. Why? Why me?

Shaking, I make my way to the bathroom, and I get a new fresh wave of grief and hatred as I think of Lahri, and how she ran to the bathroom too to escape me. I'm running away from it just like she did. And she died.

Almost screaming with the pain of it all, I throw up in the sink. I rinse most of it down, trembling. I run out of the bathroom and hit my head on the opposite wall.

I charge down the steps in a frenzy. I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I just threw up all my breakfast. I'm hungry.

I fly into the kitchen. I throw open the refrigerator door, feeling all of the pent-up cold rush out at me. I pull out some bread, and some jelly, and some peanut butter. I need a sandwich.

Still sobbing, I pull out a knife. I slice the pre-sliced bread into thick chunks. I grab the knife. I start to lather on the peanut butter on one chunk, spreading it all over the place on all sides of the vaguely cube-shaped lump. Then, the jelly. I stick the knife into the jelly as hard as I can, fracturing the jar. I slop on the jelly. I smear some more peanut butter on top of that. I get careless. Like a maniac, I chomp down as hard as I can on one section of the lump.

The knife slips.

I gasp, as the wicked, deadly blade of the knife hits my wrist. It's a steak knife. What was I thinking? Why didn't I get a butter knife? What the hell possessed me to forsake the safe butter knife? It slices through my wrist, about an eighth of an inch. It falls and clatters to the floor, almost impaling my foot.

I freeze, and so does time itself. I stare at my wrist, and I see the tiny cut grow red and liquid. Some red juice slides out. The blood runs along the edge of my arm, and then it reaches my elbow, where it builds up and drips to the ground.

Drips.

Drips some more.

I watch it slowly seeping out of the shallow cut, in a detached way.

It feels…good.

It—it feels good!

All that heat, running down my arm. It feels…good. Ahh, it feels good. Like the tub of yesterday. All the heat running across my flesh. But this heat is safe. It won't show me monsters. Safe, safe hot liquid. Ahh…safe, safe heat. It's not a monster. It's heat and happiness.

I pick up the knife, slowly. I smile a little.

And I cut myself again, making a little cross on the inside of my left forearm.

The cut's deeper this time. About a quarter inch now. More blood comes out. I…laugh. It doesn't hurt. It feels great. It feels like nothing I've ever experienced. I'm no longer crying. This cut just healed my soul. It's not blood that's coming out. It's stress. All that stress is leaving me. The monster will never come again. I know it.

I smile at it joyfully. Cutting is…amazing. It takes away all bad feelings about anything in the world. More blood drips out, more and more. Focus on the blood. All my troubles just melt away. No monster. No stress. No…unhappiness. I'm happy. So very happy.

I'm not a killer. Of course I'm not. It wasn't my fault at all. If they died, they were destined to die. It was not my fault.

I shut my eyes, and breathe in all this new knowledge. It's not my fault…

I suddenly hear the doorbell ring, while I'm muddled in all this bliss.

Could it be my mom?

Why is she back so early? Why is she interrupting my happiness? I look at the clock. Hm. It must be wrong. It says that it's 45 minutes later than it was before. There's no way all that took 45 minutes of my life. But wasn't I typing for 40 minutes? Whatever…

I simply stare at the door. It rings again, in a more agitated way. Again, again, again. I don't want to let her in. I really don't. I'm not a monster. I'm not a monster and I don't have to let her in. I'm not a killer or a monster or a mean person or anything bad so I don't have to let her in. But, I should let her in. Since I'm not a monster I should do the good thing. I should let her in. I should I should I should I should…

In all of these thoughts slowly rises the good person. I slowly muster up the strength to go to the door. With my freshly bleeding arm, I open it. I can see my mom, very annoyed, waiting outside in the hot , rainy air. It must really be hot out there. And her clothes are stuck to her like glue, and her hair as though she just got out of the shower. She's like my hot, wet blood. She's holding two grocery bags. She must have gone shopping on the way.

She rolls her eyes, and motions for me to unlock the damn door. I open it for her, holding it out in front of her politely. I want to be polite because I'm not a monster. I'm not. A person who isn't a monster is polite. I am a good polite person, not a rude killer.

She drags the bags in slowly, groaning all the way, leaving them on the floor by the refrigerator. She slowly takes out the milk and vegetables and other cold food and puts them in the fridge. She then stands and turns to me, fire in her eyes. She doesn't even notice the food explosion on the counter to her left, thank God. How did it get there?

"What were you waiting for? I was holding three gallons of milk! Were you sleeping, or what? Or were you just being mean again?" She puts her hands on her hips, and I eye her wrists. Her perfect, intact wrists.

Suddenly, something in my body snaps me back into reality. Most moms don't like to see self-inflicted wounds on their child. I gasp, and hide my own behind my back, a little too quickly. I'm even still holding that steak knife in my non-cut hand, to boot! But I'm not a killer! I don't hurt people! Why am I hurting myself? Why, if I'm good, am I hurting myself?

"I asked you a question. Say something." I don't. She gives me a questioning look, and walks over to me, studying my face. "Are—are you crying?"

I breathe in. The breath is shuddery. "No."

"Honey?" She goes over to me and feels my cheek. I resist the urge to slap it away. Then she'd see the blood on my arm. "You ARE! Oh, baby, what happened? What's the matter?"

I shake my head and keenly avoid from her sharp green gaze. She tries to tilt my face up to hers again. I wrench it away. She withdraws her hand. My lips twitch, and I back away from her.

She inches ever closer to me. "Katrina? Please, talk to me! What happened?"

I shake my head, and mutter, "You don't understand. I'm not a killer. I'm a good person. I'm a good polite person."

"What are you talking about? Of course you are!" I've never seen her look this frightened. "Honey, I'm just a little upset that you're being cranky and that my medical school was closed today so I waited outside the campus for one of my professors to get me for nothing! I love you, no matter what. You're not a bad person!"

"I'm not a killer. I'm not. I'm a good person." I stutter out, finally.

"Honey, I know! What happened?"

My back and hands hit the wall that I didn't see behind me. She's been backing me up and I didn't even notice that now she's got me cornered. No. Oh no. I won't go down like this. I can't let her see that I'm not a good person. NO! I AM A GOOD PERSON! Why am I considering that I'm not? I AM!

I need to get away. I'm not a killer. I need to get away. She's trying to make me think that I'm a killer. I'm not. I need to escape so she doesn't make me doubt that I'm a good person.

I shove past her, in a well-planned Tai-Chi shoulder bump. While she tries to keep her balance, I skirt around her, like I did with Sensu, and charge up the stairs back to my room. I get more and more tired as I run. Once up there, I shut and lock the door.

"KATRINA?" She yells from downstairs.

"I'M TAKING A NAP! I'M A GOOD PERSON!" I scream in a panic, and flop back down on my bed, not even bothering with the covers. I look at my wrist. Good, those gashes are already clotted. No more fresh bleeding. She never saw it. I'll never do it again, and that'll be the end of it. I am a good person, so the cuts will heal perfectly. Bad things don't happen to good people.

I just lay there, motionless, in bed.

Why did I slash myself? If I'm a good person then why did I hurt myself? Oh god. I'm a good person. I really am. I am…it isn't my fault…

That's the only phrase that runs through my head.

I stare at the knife I still have. It's crusty with my blood. I pant in horror as I stare at it, and a fresh wave of terror envelopes me. "I'M NOT A KILLER! I'M NOT A KILLER! I'M NOT A KILLER!" I scream and throw it across the room. It sticks straight out form the white wall. I can't get away from it. I can't. I killed.

Shaking, eyes wide, and refusing to scream with everything I am, I curl up half-under the covers and start sobbing again. What just happened? What just happened?

What's the matter with me?

I just keep watching that evil, evil knife. Evil. Just like the knife that Beauty almost killed Mie with. I'M NOT A KILLER! It's everyone else that's evil.

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Mom's POV:

I resist the urge to run up after Katrina. Katrina doesn't feel well and she's in a bad mood. I'll just let her cool her jets, and then I'll talk to her and resolve this.

I almost start crying myself. I just hate this. Why is she like this? Before Japan, she was never this depressed. I've noticed the gap between my daughter and this new Katrina. It isn't a good difference at all. She's said such weird things since she got back. Like, 'Are any of your friend's dead?' When I was talking about the old friends I met at medical school. And the way she said it, too…it was very…unusual for her. And just yesterday, she whispered, 'It's all my fault…' when she was in bed and thought I couldn't hear her. I mean, everyone has something they blame themselves for. What worries me is that she refuses to talk about it. What could be that bad? And 'I'm not a killer.' What does she mean? Is she that traumatized? And about what?

In any case, I certainly have to talk to her now. Whatever she thinks is her fault must be eating her up. For now, I have to give her some time to calm down and think to herself.

I sigh. After about 15 minutes wait, I creep upstairs and stand directly outside her room. I just hear very heavy breathing. Good. It's not ragged. She might have calmed down. I can talk to her now. I try to open the door, only to find that it's locked. Strange. Katrina never locks her door from me. Everyone else, yes. But never from me.

I sigh. I have a key to open her door downstairs, but I won't invade her privacy like that. I will be a respectful, caring, empathetic mother. When she's ready, I'll come in. Instead of getting the key, I go to the bathroom. I never got the chance to pee while on the road. I walk inside and shut the door behind me.

Then, I see the God of Roadkill itself in the sink. I shriek and jump back from it. I hold my nose and peer back over it. Is that puke I see and smell? I shiver and turn on the sink, flushing the rest of it down. Gross.

Then, it hits me. Katrina must have thrown up. She's ill far beyond a small cold, like that quack doctor said it was. She might be heaving right now. I have to help her out right now.

I do my thing and then get out of the bathroom, going back to her room's door. This time, I rap on it hard. "Katrina! Katrina Lillian Kon, open this door!"

I hear nothing, not even uneven breaths. Humph. If that's the way she wants to play it…

I go back downstairs for that key to her room that she doesn't even know I have. HAHAHA. I'll get that door open one way or another.

I go for the cupboard next to the microwave, which is where I keep it. Before I even have the chance to open the cupboard door, I see on the counter, the second God of Roadkill. It looks like some kind of demented cannibal tried to make a sandwich. And failed. "Good Lord." I whisper. I go over to it. Katrina must have done this too. But WHY? She diced up the pre-sliced bread, got peanut butter in the jelly jar, which is broken and leaking, and one of the chunks of bread is so completely smeared in peanut butter that it could have passed for the Thing That Came From The Sea. What was she thinking?

My left eye twitches. This is getting me a little angry now. I realize that Katrina needs time to recuperate and get some leisure time at home, and that she's very sick to top it all off, but what the hell did a sandwich ever do to her? This is unacceptable. I will not stand for such treatment of my kitchen. Katrina has to grow up. I will not take this. I'll get this fixed and we'll have a serious talk when she's better about respect.

I glare at it and wet a paper towel under the sink to clean it up. And then my eyes fall on the spot of wall just to the right of the sink. My hands slacken, and the soggy paper towel runs out of my hands down to clog up the drain.

I gasp. I stare at the long, narrow cross-shaped spot of red, red blood on the wall, permanently staining it. Horror ensnares my heart. She hurt herself when I backed her up into the wall. She's sick, crying, and she's bleeding. Oh god, I need to help her. What if she's bleeding to death? As well as barfing up her stomach?

I fight panic and go back to the cabinet, fumbling for the key to her room. I grab it, and then my wet fingers slip and it ends up in a crevice, hidden in the middle of the cabinet. "SHIT!" I scream, trying to dig it out to no avail. I scream in frustration and charge back up the steps. I start hammering on her door.

"KATRINA!" I scream. "OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR NOW!"

Still no response. "ARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!" I scream, and I start to slam my whole body against the door. Again and again and again…there, I can feel a tremble. With one final smash, I prevail. The door slams open, breaking the hinge, hitting and probably marking the wall behind it. I fly into the room, and my eyes rest on Katrina, lying curled up under her bed covers, breathing normally, it seems. I sigh. Maybe she's sleeping. She'll be fine.

"Honey?" Nothing. "Honey, I'm sorry I yelled. I was just worried about you." I sit down on the edge of her bed. "I'm sorry that you're not feeling well…can you at least acknowledge me?"

Still nothing. My internal alarm blares again, but I suppress it. Instead of freaking out, I reach up and pull the covers gently away from her face. "Honey, it's okay, I can forgive you. But if you refuse to talk to me you force me to—AGH!"

I shriek when her face comes into clear view. Her eyes are open and staring, and she's trembling, and in such a tight ball…she's…watching something. I follow her gaze, and see a long thin shadow across the wall.

There's a knife sticking out of the wall.

I almost faint on the spot. The knife has blood on it. Part of it dripped onto the wall.

I violently fight away panic. "Katrina? Katrina, if you can hear me, say something!" I shake her. She does nothing.

I turn her over to look at me, and my eyes catch something on the sheet.

Blood. A lot of red blood. It stands out against the blue sheets.

"Not a killer. Good person. Not a killer." Her voice is barely above a whisper, but she keeps chanting it, over and over. She clasps her right wrist tightly.

Almost not wanting to know, I peel off her clammy fingers. Her body glistens with cold sweat.

I turn over her wrist and see 2 scabbed gashes running along her forearm.

I look from her wrist, to the knife in the wall, back to her wrist.

When I walked in the door, she was hiding her bloody wrist from me. Katrina cut her own wrist. My daughter is a cutter. Cutter.

NO. No, this can't be! Not Katrina! She was always my happy little angel, always ready to do something, always ready to play. She isn't allowed to do this! This is what you see in those depressing documentaries about children that turn to drugs or knives or murder to relieve depression. This is not what happens to a happy suburban girl. THIS CAN'T BE! SHE'S NOT DEPRESSED!

Katrina looks at me weakly. "It's not my fault. I don't hurt people. I don't kill people. Mommy, I'm a good person…" She starts crying again. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong…?"

I bite my lip hard. It doesn't help.

My own daughter is suicidal.

'You don't understand.' This was what she meant. I don't understand. What would make her do such a horrible thing?

This is too big for me to handle. I run, faster than I ever have, to the phone.

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Author's Note: Creepy, huh? Next chapter is the—well, I can't tell you that now, can I? Review me please! Want to hear something funny, though? This chapter was initially scheduled to be chapter 1, and look at all the stuff I needed to add in before it! I'm glad I looked it over first (this would have been a seriously morbid first chapter). I'm sorry to say that the morbid does not end here. In the eighth chapter, well, then we start to see the old Katrina. That's when I finally figured out how to outwit the angst :P Until then, see ya!