BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

"Shut up!" I groaned to myself before slamming my fist on the snooze button.

I freaking hate Mondays.

I managed my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Yes, it's monstrous, I know. You might as well label me as a freak at six in the morning- Max eats breakfast.

My step-brother, Dylan, was already at the table, shoveling cereal down his throat in his boxers and t-shirt. His mom had constantly scolded him, saying he'll catch a cold, whatever. Dylan could block out noise pretty well.

When our parents (My dad Jeb and his mom, Bridget) got married about a year or two ago we were pretty good friends. We had a great relationship. I don't talk to him; he doesn't talk to me, and on the weekends we make our parents feel like we're one big happy family with normal mom and dad. But my dad's in his late fifties and his mom is thirty two. She had Dylan when she was sixteen. She still looks twenty and my dad looks even older, but what can I say? He's rich and she's good looking. They're a good match.

Since my father is oh-so-rich (He owns several science labs and office buildings) he's not home too often. I know for a fact he's cheating on Bridget. I also know Bridget's cheating on him. They also have a great relationship. But he makes her feel great by showering her and Dylan in money and gifts and expensive clothes. I can be included in all that, but I really don't want to. He probably doesn't even care that half the money he gives Dylan goes straight to his dope fund.

"Hey Max," He said, nodding at me.
"Dylan," I murmured, pouring a bowl of cereal for myself.
There was a pause as we finished our food.
"Jeb and Bridget are gone," He noted. That's another thing, we call them by their first names. "They're probably at a hotel or something."
I nodded. He was probably right.
"So, no parents. Too hot teenagers in a house together. Alone…" He said, grinning suggestively. "What do you want to do?"
I threw him a half hearted glare. I was used to his… Advances? Annoying-ness?
"That's incest." I said, washing my bowl out in the sink.
He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
"Not really." He said, too close to my ear. "We're not blood related."
I rolled my eyes and shoved him.
"Back off," I yawned.
He made a face.
"You wouldn't be such a freak if you had fun once and a while." He hollered as I walked up the stairs.
"I'm not the one trying to bang a sibling." I reminded him before slipping behind my door.

I cranked up my music as I got ready for school. I flat ironed my hair-bleached to a platinum blonde. I'm not goth. I'm just not what society's blonde girl looks like. My eyes are a deep brown with tiny specks of gold. No one's got close enough to me to notice that, though. Or they at least haven't said anything. Maybe Dylan has.

I pulled on a midnight blue flannel shirt and over skinny jeans and a whip of mascara finished off my look. See? I told you I'm not goth.

I sprinted down the stairs. I saw Dylan putting on one of his obnoxious pairs of shoes. It's funny how he and his buddies hate Justin Beiber but dress just like him. I slipped on my favorite combat boots and was out the door without saying a word to him.

We both got in our cars and drove away from the gigantic mansion. A perk of being rich: You get any car you want because you're crazy father uses money as an apology for being an awful parent.

I parked at the back of the parking lot and waited until Dylan got out of his car. That's another unwritten rule of our family; we don't let anyone know we're family. We don't let anyone know we even know each other. I saw Dylan give a sloppy reunion kiss to his new girl friend. They haven't seen each other in about twenty whole hours! He walked to school with his arm wound tightly around Angel, who's a freshman. A junior dating a freshman? Stranger things have happened. And yes; he has a girlfriend. It doesn't matter, though. He has a new one every day. It's kind of sad. I kind of like this girl. There's something about her, a childlike innocence that really captures me, even if she is a bit of a control freak from what I hear. I usually hate all his bitches, but I don't want him to play her like he does all the others. Oh, well. There's nothing I can do about it.

School didn't start for another half hour and the parking lot was basically empty. I winced as the flannel brushed against my wrist when I reached to turn on the radio and yanked my arm back. I rolled up my sleeve to inspect my hand. Deep lines overlapping with thinner ones went up my forearm. Last night was bad. I have to stop doing that.

But I can't…

So before I could stop myself I took out my phone and google searched: Self Harm, Need Help.

I tapped on an awareness website. It was basically just a bunch of bullshit about not letting shit get to you. But one thing stood out at me.

If you know someone that has harmed themselves, or have harmed yourself before, draw three black lines on your wrist this Monday.

Hmmm… Today's Monday. What the hell? I rolled up the sleeve on my right arm, the clean one, and drew three lines with a sharpie. What's the worst that could happen?