I hate the light.

It's a source of heat – heat that burns beneath my skin - heat that burns all the way through to my core. If I were to die, I'd rather die a slow, freezing death than a quick hot and fiery one. I wish that everywhere I went; a giant, thick, black umbrella hovered above me and shielded me from the light. I would say that I wish that the sun would burn out; then again, I did pay attention in my science classes.

I also wish that light bulbs were never invented – fucking Thomas Edison. Did you know that there are hundred-watt light bulbs being manufactured right now? As if we need more light.

No one does.

Why can't I just smash all the light bulbs in the house, paint over the windows with black paint, and stay cooped up in my room all day every day?

The stinging rays of the sun burns against my eyelids. Once again, the maid that had been assigned to exclusively take care of my room had opened the window shades in the middle of the night. She just does it to poke fun at me, but doesn't realize that I don't see it the same way. I pull my back up off my king-sized mattress then lie there, slumped in place for a few minutes. Dear lord, I really don't want to go to school, I just want to lie in my bed and think all day. . . But if I did that, I won't be able to see my favorite bird.

Just the thought of not going bird-watching for even a single day – even if it's at the cost of having to sit through school and get fatigued at soccer practice – pains me. I know, who would think that Trevor Mitchel – avid scholar and star soccer-player – enjoyed bird-watching over anything else? Although, I don't know if I'm really considered a bird-watcher since I only like to watch one type of bird.

When I enter to the dining room, I see that breakfast is already made for me; scrambled eggs, wheat toast, four slices of bacon, two slices of sausage, and apple juice. I take a sip of apple juice and grab the bacon and left – I don't really like to eat much anymore.

I quickly whip my red Kia Optima into my usual parking space and get out as fast as possible. The bell to go inside had already rung and I run my fastest to get to my locker as soon as I can. After I get all of my things, I immediately make my way to the corner of the hall. I poke my head around the corner, and there I spot my favorite bird – the Raven. So beautiful, so majestic. And so black that it's almost like it's glowing, as if it's very soul – it's very essence – is radiating for all to see.

But that's when Raven walks in front of the window and startles the bird, making it fly away. My eyes follow her to her locker. I wait for her to get her locker open, and then I approach her. I come up to the side of the locker so that the door was blocking her view of me. When she closes her locker, she automatically glares at me.

"Hey Monster Girl, I heard you're little boyfriend got into trouble with your parents." She just sighs and tries to walk away, but I step in front of her. "I heard it was because that freak boy tried to make little monster babies with you." This makes her blush.

That would've confirmed the rumors – only, she didn't actually say it herself. Hearing her say it herself is that only thing that will make me accept it as the truth. . .

She pushes past me and runs off.

Intense fear and anger ran through my body. Fear – because this proves that I'm losing her to that vampire asshole freak more and more. Anger – because she's so close to losing her virginity to someone other than me.

My body surges with the feeling of fear to the feeling of anger all day, well, except for Geometry and lunch when Raven and I were in the same room together. For those periods of time, the negative emotions I was feeling temporarily subsided. When school ended, I had to restrain myself from blowing the speed limit as I blasted through the streets to that mansion – that damned mansion.

I drive my car through the massive crowd of trees surrounding the mansion – I'm actually surprised that neither my secret route nor my secret hiding point had ever been discovered, considering how many times I visit it on a weekly basis. I park my car at my lookout place and turn off the engine. I wait and wait for that old man to come back with Raven. If I understand the rumor about her and her boyfriend "doing the deed" correctly, she's been forbidden to see this guy for at least half a month – all the more reasonable for her to come back here anyway. Everything she's told to do, or not to do, she does or doesn't do it anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I saw that black Mercedes roll up the driveway. The old guy opens her door for her. Even from how far I am from the car, I can hear her thigh-high dark purple high-heeled boots clicking against the cement walkway. I watch as Raven runs to the front double-doors, and then wait for the old guy to walk slowly up to her and open the doors. A few hours pass by and the attic lights finally flips on - that freak's finally woken up.

I know Raven's complaining to him about how someone's made up this horrible rumor about her by now. About how I've heard about it and how she'll never recover from this and now her life is "officially ruined." Her face should be soaked with tears by now.

Now he'd be holding in her in his arms – something I should be doing – whispering sweet nothings into her ear, telling her everything will be fine. He'd then plant a soft kiss upon her cheek, making her just a bit better, but not completely healing the wound.

That comforting kiss should have been given by me.

Now he'd be taking her to his little painting area – oh yeah, I do indeed know the layout of his house – why would I not?

He's with my Raven and I should be able to know everything – everything – about him.

He'd either show her a beautiful painting of her, or start painting her – which would cheer her up even more. And now, they'd be lying in his bed in silence, simply basking in each others presences to ease the very last of Raven's pains.

Such actions make me sick. . .

The next day at school, I decide to not confront Raven at all. I wanted to eavesdrop on her and find out what she's really thinking about all of this – what really happened between her and that bastard. The best way to eavesdrop is when the person you're keeping an eye on hardly even knows you've even awoken for the day.

The loser that I labeled as my "new best friend" told me that "the facts are there and that it doesn't need any more investigating to figure out the rumor was true – he was hopelessly in denial.

I didn't want to believe that my Raven had had her first time with that – just letting this rumor go on was not an option. It was lunchtime when I overheard her talking to Becky about it. Raven said that they didn't even really go at it, she said that he had just taken her bra off and laid her down on her bed when her little brother came in and ratted her out.

At least, that's what I replaced her real words with.

I didn't want to hear, "My parents heard me after I'd screamed his name." Or, "I think the condom had a hole in it." No, I didn't hear any of that.

I didn't hear it. . .

With all this eavesdropping, I'd been keeping my back to Raven the entire time in the case that she'd become suspicious of me, so I had become restless and anxious to see her. I'm just glad I had soccer practice today; Raven might be coming with Becky to see Matt.

Speaking of Matt. . . . He better not have said anything to either of those girls.

Matt's the only person I'd ever shown a little something I've been working on to - and ever since he stopped being my friend, whatever he says to anyone is out of my control. I wish I could show you too, but you don't even know me all that well, too risky. But if I could show you, you'd defiantly appreciate how beautiful it was. . .

Anyway, I had started daydreaming through the first half-hour of practice. By the time I began to focus, I had just lost control of the ball and accidentally made it go up into the stands right into Raven and Becky. My stomach churns at the sight I see; the ball didn't just go to them, it hit Raven directly in her face. I know she is expecting me to say something snarky and obnoxious – everyone else as well – and I would have said something for the sake of keeping my mask up; but I was so mad at myself for hitting her, so sickened at myself for hitting her, so numb with all of these mixed feelings, that all I could do was bite my lips and turn away from the awful scene.

All of my teammates began laughing, except for Matt of course. Yet I am on the verge of tears – I couldn't bear the thought of me – me – causing my favorite little bird even an ounce of such pain! That's when the whole world shook, and I was on my face – she'd thrown the ball straight to the back of my head. It really didn't harm my head – or at least, it wouldn't have – it didn't even really hurt. But because of my already nauseous mind combined with my worn out body and furiously conflicting emotions, it had knocked me out.

I come to a while later in my bed. To my pleasure, the shades aren't open to let in the obnoxious sunlight. But sadly, the annoying lights are on. . . My mother, who is on the other side of the room placing a few towels into the towel steamer, noticed that I was awake and rushes over to me.

"Oh Trevor, Honey!" She nearly screams, "Why didn't you tell us you were sick this morning? We would have let you stay home today!"

Sick? Was I sick? I don't remember feeling sick - at least, not physically.

She removes the thermometer from my mouth and checks it – I don't recall feeling it in my mouth. She gasps. "It's one hundred and three degrees! My goodness, Honey, we're lucky we brought you home when we did! I'll call your doctor. Oh, I hope he can be here as soon as tomorrow. . ." She mumbles the last part to herself as she nears the door.

"Mother," I call out to her, "Can you turn the lights off and close the door please?" She does so without responding to me. I immediately sit up in my bed and quickly become dizzy; I lean back on my headboard until everything around me stilled. After everything was steady, I flick on the small desk lamp on the nightstand beside my bed. I rifle through the bottom drawer and soon find what I need – a small peeling knife.

I haven't forgotten the terrible pain I'd caused my Raven earlier, and now I'm going to pay for it. I slowly pull my shirt of and let it drop to the floor. This isn't the first time I cut myself; all those times I embarrassed Raven or made her cry, how could I not? But I needed to cut deeper this time – deeper, longer, and more than usual. Causing my dear little Raven physical pain is a sin that must be punished with great fury and anger. I press the knife harshly into the back of my shoulder and begin pulling at it.

It's a burning white sensation as the skin along my right shoulder-blade opens and the blood spills out onto the pillow I am propped up on. I became dizzy at this time, but I pressed on. I move the knife lower and closer to my spine this time and press even harder. When I drag the knife, it goes slower than the cut I'd just done. This time the blood spurts out like water out of a geyser.

By now, I was sweating heavily. My usual amount of cuts per session was four; and I need more than that before I could pass out again. I switch hands and position the knife near my right hip and press even harder than the first two cuts. I drag it as slow as I could up my side. I had just passed my bottom rib when a blinding pain jumped out at me; I had pushed at my flesh too hard.

I had stabbed myself – again. . .

I'd pressed too hard with the knife and punctured my lung, deep. Thankfully, the knife was small and didn't cause much internal bleeding. I groan in annoyance.

I hear someone approaching my door and scramble towards the towel steamer. I'd gotten back to my bed and placed three hot towels underneath me just in time for my father to come in and turn on the DAMNED lights.

My vision is still blurry from moving so fast, but I'm still able to notice his eyes widen in shock when he notices how drenched in sweat I am. He puts his hand to my head and instantly retracts it.

"I think we're gonna need your mother to take your temperature again." At that moment, the towel steamer dinged. "Ah!" Dad says looking at it, "A nice hot towel should make you feel a bit more comfortable! Sit up and-"

"No!" I interrupt. He stares at me, shocked. "Y-You don't have to," I continue, "Mom already gave me a few earlier."

He looked at me skeptically, then shrugs and starts for the door. "Trevor," He called out to me as he opened the door, "Some of your friends from the soccer team came by to. . ." The rest of his words echoes into nothingness. The room begins to spin again and I become very tired. Through the spinning mesh swirling in my line of vision, I see my father leave.

I struggle to sit up, feeling the freshly open cuts and the accidental wound burn with irritation. I tare the towels from underneath me and immediately plummet to my bed. I spread the first towel out above me, and that's when my heart nearly stops – the towel was completely soaked in red.

The last thing that happened before I passed out once again was the sound of someone else approaching my door once again, my heart pounding mercilessly on my ribcage, and my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

I found out three hours later that it was my mother that approached my door before I blacked out.

I'm now at the hospital with at least three different needles stuck inside me. I slowly sit up. My father puts his hands on my chest and tries to push me back down. "Whoa, Trevor!" He exclaims nervously, "You're in no condition to move around. Please, just lay back down."

I refuse to allow him to push me back down. It takes me all of my strength to resist him, but he eventually gives in to my stubbornness and allows me to sit up. He gives me an annoyed look and left the room – probably to tell my mother that I'm awake. Humph, like I'd ever care if I annoyed him, it's not like he's my real father.

A while later, my mother and a doctor comes in – my "father" lagged behind them. My mother wraps her arms around me – she's a red-faced, blubbering mess. My "father" just leans against the wall and glares over at us.

"Why!" My mother cries, "Why would you do this to yourself, Honey? What could possibly make you so desperate to do something like this?" This is too easy.

Believe it or not, this isn't the first time she's caught me cutting. After the second time she caught me, she'd become so distraught over the thought that I'd do such a thing to myself; she'd go into severe denial and forget every time I'd done it within a week or so. Although, she's never been the same. All I have to do is lie for the sake of the doctor not calling child services. Although, it doesn't work out that way all the time. But when it doesn't – hey, my family runs this town, all we do is snap our fingers and the authorities dismiss it without a question.

"I-I didn't do it, m-mother!" I fake a sob, "S-Someone – one of the maids – snuck in and did this to me!"

In her state of hysteria, she easily accepts the lie for truth. "Who, Honey, who!" She cries.

I thought for a moment. Who in our staff is expendable enough to frame . . .?

"I-I think it was Marie, t-the woman that cleans my room!" I say faking a panic.

My mother makes a face, and then curses loudly. "I knew that bitch was out for us! I could just tell by the way she stared at us when we had dinner!"

My mother continues her angered rambling for a few more minutes, then walks out into the hall to call the police – my father following behind her. The doctor checks a few things on the monitors around me, and then leaves.

I sigh and sink down in my bed. This endless cycle of a life; it's so crazy to think of going through things like this on bi-weekly basis to the average person, but it's all normal to me. Yeah, I know I'm not perfectly sane, and I accept this. I've accepted it for the past ten years. Yes – ever since I was seven, I've made peace with the fact that I'm possibly criminally insane. I guess that means I matured pretty early, doesn't it?

I stared at the bright fluorescent light hanging above me on the ceiling. Dammit, I should've asked someone to turn it off. This thought came to me as I attempted to sit up again and possibly cross the room and turn the lights off myself – which I couldn't do because I was so exhausted.

I hate the light.