rachel's perspective

But, Mr. Francis,

I am tired of trying.

CHAPTER THREE

Today was Thursday, September 26th.

My homework, my studying habits, and my note taking were still irregular.

The usual school day finished and I was still anxious and mentally paralyzed. I never socialized with anyone at Jump City High.

I was a transfer there.

The last school I was attending was shut down because of a crisis.

It was only my parents and I living in our small tenant, and it was safe to say, I was on my own.

"Fifty two cracks on the sidewalks today," I whispered to myself.

"If I took the main street it would be thirty eight of them. Shortcuts aren't always shorter. Fifteen cars on Lyre Street. Yesterday we had twenty one."

I opened the door slowly.

I rushed straight to the bathroom and washed my hands. I delved my palms in soap and water, cleansing them thoroughly for two minutes. I brushed my teeth for the third time today. The toothpaste bubbled in my mouth and left my teeth spic and span.

Just how I liked it.

My anxiety calmed down and I grabbed a paper towel. I dried my hands, reopened the door with the paper towel, and disposed of it.

"Rachel, I am tired of doing your laundry!"

My mother stormed out of her bedroom.

"You're going to have to start doing it yourself. This is ridiculous."

My mother, Arella Roth, had ebony hair and sapphire eyes like mine. Her face was stiff and stolid, matching her hostile personality.

I never liked interacting with anyone, and my mother was most likely the cause.

"Did you hear me!?" She barked, snatching me out of my nervous daze.

I froze on the spot, barely finding a response.

"Yes, Mother. I heard you."

"Then make sure that you answer me when I talk to you. You aren't mute! Use your words and communicate! Back in my day we had no choice, but to do that especially with our elders. Your generation is completely backwards and does things wrong. When will you ever learn, Rachel!? At least I tried. I don't know why I did. You'd come out as a failure anyway."

Another insult, but I spoke soft words of respect. I smiled tenderly.

"You're right, Mother. I'll try to do better."

"You're a lost cause. And stop smiling like that, you look like a psychopath."

She shoved past me and walked to the living room.

I walked into my room.

When it came on to my own things, I was not frantic about washing my hands.

In my room, I knew who touched what last for the most part.

My parents barely came in here, so that was not much of a deal either.

I glanced at my calloused palms that were tattered from the excessive use of soap and rubbing against each other.

I sat down at my desk, eyeing the descending Sun through my window. It's rays joyfully hit my daily journal.

I sighed deeply and tapped the butt of my pen seven times.

I wrote my name and the date intricately on the white slice.

On it I wrote:

Psychopath.

Failure.

Lost Cause.

Each day I wrote a list of the names that I was called. Some days the list was longer than others.

I smiled at the list.

I had some faith that maybe these names were jokes of some sort.

I heard many kids in school call each other psychopath and laugh, so I figured this was a laughing matter, too.

So, I laughed.

I laughed with a fake joy, the type that made a heart wrench.

"Maybe, Mother is joking too. Although she never laughs, these words were said in a harsh tone. So maybe she meant it?"

My mind was conflicted as I wrote about my day.

I made a mistake.

I angrily scribbled the error out and smashed the paper into my fist.

I tossed it into the trash can and began a new page.

"Oh, today's Thursday. I have to clean all of the doorknobs. And dust off my dresser and change the pillowcase."

"Rachel, why are you always talking to yourself?" A masculine tone asked me.

My father was standing at the door, which I left closed.

I turned around, slightly startled.

"I don't know, Father. I do it a lot."

My father had blond hair and blue eyes. He was strict and rigid, but there were times he lightened up unlike my mother.

"You know only mentally insane people do that kind of stuff?"

"Sure, I mean... I'm sure everyone gives themselves pep talk every now and then." I sadly responded.

"Yes, Rachel, but you are having full conversations with yourself. I thought you were on the phone the way you were talking." My father explained.

"I'm not. I'm all by myself."

I sighed, then placed my pen on the side.

"Tristan! Where's the vegetable knife!? I have to be at that conference for seven, so dinner is being cooked early!" My mother yelled from a distance.

Before my father could respond, my mother yelled again.

"TRISTAN! It's four o'clock, and you know dinner takes more than an hour!"

"Alright! I'm coming! Golly, what are you even cooking!?"

My father left my room in a haste.

I tapped the end of my pen again and wrote the new phrase.

Mentally insane.