Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"
Автор книги: E. L. Montes
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E. L. Montes
Perfectly Damaged
“When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something’s suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.”
– Barbara Bloom
Dedication
For the ones who have
always felt alone,
like there was no more fight left in them…
&
For Isabella…
The most powerful thing of all is to believe in yourself, and you’ll never be alone.
Falling through the cracks sometimes doesn’t make you weak; it just means you’ll be that much stronger in the end.
You’re perfect exactly the way you are.
Never let anyone take that away from you.
prologue
8 months earlier
I’m not sure how I got here. It’s dark and chilly outside. The moon’s light casting down around me is all I have to guide me through. I’m lost and afraid, trembling as the thundering rain assaults my body with every move I make. The faster I run, the harder the heavy drops stab my skin. But I continue to plunge my bare feet into the cold, muddy ground as I try to get away.
I can hear someone calling my name. It’s a familiar voice, but I can’t stop. My heart spirals out of control as I force one foot in front of the other. I have to run faster, get away from that person, get away from that voice. A scream tears up out of my throat, and I force myself to sprint through the graveyard. I lose my footing, slipping and falling in front of a tombstone. My body’s covered in thick, heavy mud as I try to bring myself up. My hair is soaked, drenched and hanging over my face like a drape. Swiftly brushing the dark strands aside, I look up. My heartbeat drives full force before it comes to a screeching halt as I read the carving on the monument: RIP Brooke McDaniel.
“NO!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
No. No. No.
My body jerks up as I gasp for air. Skin damp with sweat, knuckles white, fisting the bed sheets, my chest heaves as I try to calm my breathing. It takes me a few seconds to collect myself.
A dream. Just a dream. About what?
In a complete daze, my mind struggles to remember. Darkness. Thunder. Mud. Running. And then… Brooke! Snatching my phone from the nightstand, I jump out of bed and run to her room. I place a shaky hand on the knob, but that’s as far as I can go. I’m stuck. I know what I’ll find on the other side, and it frightens me. After a few breaths, I find the courage to open it. And it’s just as I expected: nothing.
Filled with all the things that defined her, her room is exactly the same as she left it. My eyes sweep across her large bookshelf, which is overflowing with hundreds of books. I fight back a sob as my gaze rests on the sitting area where she spent countless hours immersed in a story. I shiver, taking in the now-faded posters of her favorite bands pinned all over her pale yellow walls. Her favorite book quotes, stenciled on the wall over the headboard of her bed, bring back memories of days we spent endlessly talking about them and the authors who wrote them. Pink, purple, and yellow paint her room; colors that blend together in a beautiful and sophisticated décor that only Brooke could design. Picture frames filled with images of us, Mom, Dad, and Charlie cover her desk. All of these items are valuable to me. All of them mean something to me. But all they are…is exactly that. Tangible items, filling a room that feels nothing short of vacant.
Chin down, shoulders slumped, and heart breaking, I can’t control the warm tears running down my heated cheeks. I’m praying, hoping this time it’ll be different. But it’s useless. Allowing the pain to overtake every nerve for just this moment, I hesitantly tread over to her bed, fall on top of the plush surface, and wrap myself securely in the comforter. She loved this stupid purple quilt. I remember the day she barged into my room with the soft lilac fabric in her hand, smiling brightly at the deal she managed to score at the mall. Her wide green eyes were filled with pride, her perfectly plump pink lips curled into a beautiful smile.
Why do I torture myself? Why do I allow myself to feel this pain?
I feel absent without her in my life. I need her back to feel whole again. I need her to bounce into the room with her passionate, wholehearted persona and bring light to my storm, the way she always used to. But that’s not going to happen. Brooke isn’t going to barge through that door.
And as much as I know this will do nothing but worsen the agonizing pain, I grab my phone and speed-dial Brooke’s number. It rings. I bring the cell to my ear.
“Hi, this is Brooke! Leave a message after the beep.” Her lively voice leaps through the speaker, followed by a long beep.
Again. “Hi, this is Brooke! Leave a message after the beep.”
BEEEEEP.
Again. “Hi, this is Brooke! Leave a message after the beep.”
AGAIN.
I torture myself over and over until I’m exhausted. Exhausted by crying, by feeling alone, and by being lost. I listen to my sister’s voicemail until there’s nothing left in me. Nothing, until the dullness of the early morning hours creeps in and I can’t keep my heavy lids open any longer. As I drift into my short coma, I wish, as I have many nights before, that I won’t wake, that I’ll vanish in my sleep because it’s the only way to just forget.
To never again…feel.
early June
Grief never goes away. It haunts you, taking over your mind,
body, and soul. Before you know it, it has won.
chapter 1
Jenna
I sit in the waiting area of my psychiatrist’s office, vacantly staring at the glass coffee table. As usual, my thoughts trail off and I question myself: What am I living for? Every day is a struggle, wondering if I’ll have another episode. My life is a constant reminder of how big a failure I am. I try to picture my life each day and how it could’ve been if I wasn’t diagnosed with my mental illness. I absolutely despise who I am.
I’ve changed. I’m colder and more distant, numb to all those around me.
It’s the only way to stop feeling. If I don’t allow any emotion into my heart and soul, I have a better chance of surviving in this cruel, fucked-up world. Well, more like existing. In the end, it’s the only way to protect myself. People don’t get me; hell, half the time I don’t get myself. My so-called loved ones fear me. And the funniest thing of all? They have no idea how much I fear myself.
Sure, there are times I run or curl into a tiny ball, rocking back and forth until it all goes away. But that’s when I’m alone. I try not to allow anyone to witness my weaknesses. No one will ever understand it, nor will they accept it. Each day I wake up trying to fight through it, trying to forget until something triggers me to crumble again.
My phone alarm goes off, and I reach into my purse, thankful for the distraction from my thoughts. My eyes scan the room, taking in the woman across from me and her arched accusatory brow. She’s obviously unhappy with my phone interrupting her reading. I cock an eyebrow in silent, smart-ass retort as I swipe across my phone screen, shutting the ringtone off.
I dig into my purse, determined not to give her any more of my time, and remove the container holding my medication. The cap pops off and I tip over the orange plastic tube, examining the tiny pills in the palm of my hand. Some days I skip them—days that I think are good and I’m capable of getting through without them. Other days I take them with no questions asked.
On this particular day, I’m not sure what to do. I’m confused. Can I handle this on my own? Is today just another day? It’s been a week since I last took one. Although the voices will always haunt my thoughts, the hallucinations have been absent for a very long time. Until last night, that is.
Uneasiness kicks in and my vision gradually clouds over. The pills are now lost in a fuzzy haze. Here it is, another episode. Breathe, Jenna. Just breathe. My breathing grows shallow, and I clasp my hand tight around the capsules. My flesh is burning as sweat condenses on my skin. Any moment now, it will start collecting across my hairline, on my neck, at the small of my back. I’ll feel it beading up and soaking through the fabric of my clothes. My chest is tightening; it’s as if someone is reaching in, gripping my heart with their bare hand, and squeezing every inch of the muscle.
“I wouldn’t take them if I were you.”
My dazed head spins, facing the one who has intruded on the beginning stages of one of my meltdowns. She’s seated beside me on the other end of the sofa, exuding a strong confidence that’s unique to her. I take in a slow, shaky breath and try to reconcile the girl before me with reality. She arches an eyebrow while examining a chip in her polished nail—as if thinking she’ll need a fresh coat soon. Her crossed leg lightly bounces in place. Finally, she peeks through her long lashes and settles her light green eyes on me. After she takes in my dismayed expression, her bottom lip juts out into a pout. “What’s wrong, Jenna?”
“You shouldn’t be here, Brooke,” I let out in a harsh whisper. “Why are you here?”
Brooke’s eyes widen and she swiftly scoots over, positioning herself beside me. “I’m here because you need me. You’re lost, Jenna. I want to help.” Her delicate features are fixed in confusion. “Aren’t you happy I’m here?” I don’t answer. She blows out a frustrated sigh and my bangs lightly drift at the airy gust. “Don’t lose who you are, Jenna. It’s okay to feel, even for this one moment.”
I shut my eyes tightly, inhaling and exhaling three soothing breaths. “You’re not real.”
Come on, I can do this. I’m strong enough.
Shut it down, Jenna.
Don’t feel.
Don’t feel.
Do. Not. Feel.
“Nonsense.” She brings a gentle finger along my moist cheekbone and wipes away a tear. A tear I didn’t realize had escaped. Dammit. “Look at me, Jenna.” Her finger traces down my jawline, hooks under my chin, and tilts my face up. “There’s no need to shut yourself down. I’m here. I’ll always be here. You know that, right? Jenna? Look at me,” she urges.
“No!” Brooke’s jaw drops slightly and her eyebrows furrow. She’s both shocked and hurt. I hurt her. But I don’t care. She isn’t real. I look away and catch the same lady who was interrupted by my phone peeking over her book at me. This time her eyes are narrowed, and she’s giving me a this-girl-is-psycho look.
You’re not real. Get out of my thoughts. I chant in my mind. It’s safer this way. No one can see me losing it.
Brooke moistens her lips. Her features soften, and then she leans in closer. Too close. “Oh, no? I’m not real to you anymore? Have I been gone that long that you’ve forgotten me? Do you see what they’re doing to you? They’re trying to make you forget me.”
My head shakes softly. There’s no way I could ever forget Brooke. Since we were little girls, Brooke felt the need to protect me, to guard me from others. Although we were only three years apart, Brooke became the mother figure I should’ve had. Our mother spilled thoughts into Brooke’s head—that I was different, special, and that I needed a tad bit more attention than normal kids. Attention that resulted in numerous therapy sessions and countless prescriptions since I was too young to remember.
Who knew a child could be diagnosed with depression at such a young age, only to discover in her late teens that she’s schizoaffective? I didn’t, but that’s what happened, and it’s fucking embarrassing. Not just for me. No. It’s embarrassing for my mother. Humiliating, actually. My mother’s perfect little life, which she’s worked so hard for by snatching up and marrying my wealthy father, is all she seems to care about.
Some say my mother won the jackpot. Others say it was love at first sight. And a very few say their marriage was a result of a one-night stand that led to pregnancy. There are three sides to the story: his, hers, and the truth. None of that matters, not when I have Brooke by my side…
But that’s just it. I don’t have her anymore. I’m alone. And before I’m reminded again of how excruciating it feels for her to be gone, I close my eyes, dig my fingers into my hair, and bend over in my seat, caging my head between my legs. No one can hear me, but deep within my thoughts I scream and cry out, Get out of my head! Get out of my head! Get out! Get out! Get out! My body shudders as I try to put away the pain and memories deep within the back of my mind, storing every bit of it in a sacred place that I mentally deadbolt and throw away the key to.
Suddenly, I jolt back from a soft touch on my shoulder. “Jenna, are you okay?”
“Dr. Rosario,” I breathe out shakily.
My therapist for the past year narrows her eyes, examining me carefully. I stare at her wide-eyed. My chest rises and falls with uneasy breaths, and my arms are sprawled out with my fingers clenched into the sofa cushion. Dr. Rosario brings her hand cautiously to my knee, leaning in so only I can hear her next words. “Jenna, are you having an episode?”
“No,” I lie quickly. “I feel sick to my stomach.” That’s not too much of a lie. “I think I caught a bug or something. Do you mind if I reschedule?”
She looks at me skeptically. With all her experience in this profession, she can tell when someone’s having an episode. I guess my lie didn’t work. “How ’bout you come into my office? If you still feel like you’re going to be sick, we can end the session early. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” I whisper. Seems like I don’t have much of a choice. “I just need to use the restroom first.”
Dr. Rosario stands. “Of course. You know where it is. Just join me in my office when you’re ready.”
I nod. Dr. Rosario smiles warmly then disappears into her office. I nervously look around. No sign of Brooke anywhere. She’s gone. I collect my things, ignoring the stares from both the receptionist and the book lady, and head straight to the bathroom. With my back flush against the locked door, I steady my breathing.
You can do this, Jenna.
You know how some people say “one day at a time?” Well, in my life, it’s more like one second at a time. The simple tasks normal people take for granted are very difficult for me. Like brushing one’s hair or taking a shower or simply waking up and getting out of bed. These things need to be encouraged, pushed, because I’d rather stay in my room, tucked beneath the sheets of my bed where it’s so much safer. I have no one to push me right now, so it takes me about three minutes just to talk myself into standing in front of the bathroom sink.
The silver-plated mirror reflects a pale, sickly-looking girl back at me as the water runs into the sink. I don’t even recognize this girl. She’s so young, yet, with the dark circles beneath her eyes, she looks at least five years older than she actually is. I want to cry. I need to cry, to just let it all out. The anger builds inside of me while questions about what I’m slowly turning into take over.
Some days I allow my thoughts to run wild, to consume me, and keep me hidden within myself. No matter how strong of a person I struggle to be, the fact still remains—even the strongest fall through the cracks sometimes. But for right now, I do what I’ve trained my mind and body to do when I have just enough fight left in me. I take my medication, swallow back the tears, straighten my shoulders, tame my disheveled chocolate-colored hair, and lift my chin. Today, I will gather what little strength I have left and not allow myself to be defeated.
Not quite feeling like a brand new woman, I walk into Dr. Rosario’s office and take a seat on the white leather sofa, which I’ve grown accustomed to. Four years of psychotherapy, five therapists, and one admission to an inpatient institution later, my parents found Dr. Rosario. They feel strongly about her abilities and said I have an actual chance of recovery with her, whatever that means.
Dr. Rosario sits across from me, at ease in her matching white leather armchair. She opens my file and roams through it as her slender finger adjusts her glasses at the bridge of her nose. The only sound in the room is her fingers flipping through the pages. It’s beginning to irritate me. My legs bounce in place. I nibble on my inner cheek as I wait. The silence claws at my skin. I like quiet, but not this kind. Not when there’s someone else occupying a room with me. Not while I’m waiting for what she’ll ask or say next.
What the hell is she thinking anyway? It never takes her this long to begin one of our sessions. Is she analyzing what she witnessed a few minutes ago? If that’s the case, I’ll be bullshitting my way through the next forty-five minutes, hoping that at the end of it she believes I’m getting better.
Her brown eyes meet mine. Finally. “So, Jenna, tell me how you’ve been dealing with your symptoms lately.”
Is she serious? Why doesn’t she try living with schizoaffective disorder for four years? Then she can tell me how she deals with it. “Good.”
“You haven’t experienced any episodes in the past week?” she prods.
I swallow back the truth. “No. I actually feel like the new medication may be working.”
Dr. Rosario smiles. “That’s great, Jenna.” She scribbles down on a note pad. “Are you having any side effects from the antipsychotics?”
“I feel nauseous at times and have a loss of appetite. I also feel sleepy all the time, just tired.”
“Ah. Do you feel that the constant need to sleep has to do with the depression part of the disorder?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, looking down at my folded hands in my lap. I spot the gold, heart-shaped charm (inscribed with Sisters Forever), which hangs from the bracelet snugged around my right wrist. I cherish this bracelet. It’s the one item that keeps me going. Brooke gave it to me at my high school graduation. Every year since then, she’s added a new charm. But not this year.
“I’m going to prescribe you a higher dose of the antidepressants. We’ll see if that’ll help with your fatigue. Is that all right?” Dr. Rosario asks, disturbing my memories.
I keep my head low, trying to fight back tears as I cling to the tiny heart-shaped charm. I nod. “Okay.”
“Great. Now, let’s discuss a few things you can work on this week.”
I nod again, allowing Dr. Rosario to go on, but her words sound off distantly as my mind is somewhere else. As usual, I react and answer at all the right times, so she thinks I’m engaged in the therapy, maybe even getting better. I have to make her believe it, or at least make myself believe it, because at this very moment I’d rather be in my room, entombed in my sheets, and locked away.
* * *
After my visit with Dr. Rosario, I take a long walk around town. It’s the only way to clear my mind, to breathe. Anything to get rid of the hallucinations and the voices in my head. For once, I just want to feel normal. No one will ever understand it, not unless they’re going through it. Eventually, my legs tire and give out, and I’m forced back home—a place I dread going to.
“Jenna, come here, sweetie,” Mom calls as I enter through the front door. She is nothing if not predictable. Sometimes I really believe she has a tracking device on me. I mean, how else could she know exactly the moment I get home? How else could she pelt me with questions and jabs and reminders and meaningless information the second I walk through the door?
I somberly head toward dad’s home office, which is the direction her deceptively saccharine voice came from. I stand by the entrance, taking note that she isn’t alone. My mother looks like a queen sitting on her throne behind the massive cherry wood desk. Her silky smooth, natural red hair falls just above her collarbone, not a strand out of place. Her makeup is flawless as ever; never has my mother gone a day without her face made up just so. Come to think of it, never has my mother gone a day without dressing up either.
Her red lips twitch into a slight pout at my appearance. We’re the opposite of one another—day and night. Where she wears dresses and skirts, I wear jeans and shorts. Where she wears overly expensive designer heels, I wear sneakers or flats. The only makeup I use is the dark shadow and liner around my eyes and a bit of lip gloss.
I’m sure it took every ounce of my mother’s strength not to make a snarky comment about my chosen attire in front of our guests. After all, I am the daughter of Gregory McDaniel, CEO and co-founder of one of the largest financing and marketing companies in the tri-state area. So I’m certain ripped-up skinny jeans, black sneakers, and a Lady Gaga T-shirt, which features her practically naked on the front, doesn’t fit into my mother’s idea of what a perfect daughter’s wardrobe should be.
“Jenna, sweetie,” she says, forcing a smile, “these are the contractors that’ll be working on the guesthouse. This is Mr. George Reed and his son, Bryson.” She extends her arm gracefully toward the two men sitting across from her.
They turn in their chairs to greet me. The older man, George Reed, looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. The younger one, Bryson, appears to be roughly around my age, maybe a bit older. They both politely nod as I walk in and stand before them.
I respond with the same gesture, but after my mother’s disapproving, narrow glare, I reach my hand out to each of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” George Reed shakes my hand sternly.
“Same here,” Bryson says with a smile.
“Should we get started, Mrs. McDaniel?” George directs to my mother.
With a delicate wave of her hand, she lets out a giggle. “Please, George, call me Laura. And yes, we can begin now that Jenna is here.”
I’m caught off guard. “Oh, I wasn’t aware I was allowed to be involved in this little project of yours.” My words blurt out rapidly in a harsh tone, but it’s too late to take them back now.
Mother bites her tongue and a tiny, firm grin forms on her face. “Of course I want you involved with this project. Please have a seat, darling.” Darling? Ha! We stare at each other for an awkward, short moment.
I try to find sincerity through her act. And would you look at that? I come up empty. Since I don’t want to make a show in front of our guests, I swiftly sit in an empty chair beside Bryson and nod for them to go on.
George clears his throat and then spreads the blueprints on top of the desk. My mother squeals with delight. She scoots to the edge of the executive chair and leans in to have a better look. Bryson sets a laptop beside the prints, revealing a 3-D mock-up image of what the guesthouse will look like upon completion. “As you requested, Mrs.—Laura,” he corrects himself and goes on, “we designed the exterior of the property to be the exact replica of your home.”
Mother brings a hand to her chest and inhales an awed gasp. “I love it.” As much as I hate to agree with her on almost anything, I have to admit, it looks really good. They’ve managed to take our eight-thousand-square-foot home and transform it into a two-thousand-square-foot replica.
Bryson nods and continues, “I’m glad you do. Now for the interior, we’ve designed a two-story home as you requested. The architect was able to add in all of your wants and needs without complications. If you decide there’s anything else you’d like to add, we’d need approval from the architect before moving forward.”
“No, everything here is exactly how I had imagined it would be. I’m sure it’ll be beautiful. Mrs. Cunningham mentioned how amazing your work is, so I know I’m in good hands.” The Cunninghams are great friends of my parents. Mr. Cunningham, formerly known as Senator Frederick Cunningham, graduated grad school with my father. They’re now frequently seen together at the local golf course.
George strokes his dark grey goatee. “Laura, we understand that you want this to be a two-month project, but we usually ask our clients to give us an extra month. This gives us some leeway with ordering materials, weather conditions, and any delays or restrictions with the building permits. Again, this is just in preparation for any unforeseen circumstances that may arise.”
“Yes, of course. So you’re looking at a deadline of mid-September?”
“Roughly around that time. We’re pretty quick workers, so I’m sure we can have it finished by the end of August, providing there are no setbacks. We can start as early as Monday morning.”
“Terrific. Jenna, is this time frame agreeable to you?”
Both George and Bryson turn their gazes in my direction, waiting patiently for my approval. Why did my input matter so much to her? This entire thing was her idea. One day she woke up and said, “I want a guesthouse!” And bam, she made a few phone calls and now we’re here. Instead of making a fuss in front of our visitors, I simply nod.
“Will it be just the two of you?” I’m not sure why I ask exactly; it just seems like a big project for two men to take on alone.
George chuckles. “Oh no. There’ll be several of us. My nephew, a few other hard workers of mine, and some subcontractors like plumbers and electricians when the time comes.”
“Oh. Okay, then,” is all I say.
Bryson shuts off the laptop and rolls up the site plans. “Awesome. We’ll fax over the contract and see you on Monday.”
My mother stands and shows our guests out. Before she returns to ignite an argument about my ill-mannered behavior or disappointing ensemble, I scurry out the back of the house, past the side of the colonial-style structure, and into the three-car garage.
* * *
“Where the hell are they?” I mumble beneath my breath. “This is ridiculous.” I huff out as I continue to rummage through the neat pile of plastic containers. It’s been over an hour since my searching escapade began.
A red container labeled Christmas.
An orange container labeled Halloween.
A blue container labeled Fourth of July.
There’s even a pink container that reads Easter with bunny ears drawn beside it. Every damn holiday is labeled on a color-coordinated container. Who needs Martha Stewart when there’s the OCD Laura McDaniel around? My mother makes certain that things are never left undone or unfinished, that everything is always in its rightful place. But for some reason, my two boxes are gone. I distinctly remember placing them in here almost seven months ago. I search every corner of the garage, every shelf, every cabinet. Nothing.
“What are you looking for?” my mother’s breathy tone pokes from behind me.
I take in a lungful of air before turning around and facing her. “Where are my boxes?”
She leans against the entryway of the garage door. “Why on earth are you looking for them?”
“Last I knew they were my things.”
Mom tugs a hand through her perfect hair and her shoulders deflate as she sighs loudly. “Dr. Rosario—”
“Dr. Rosario said I could start again.”
A stunned expression lines her soft features. “Oh. Well, then. I placed them in the shed.” I nod and move swiftly past her, but before I can exit she reaches out and grabs my arm. Her touch is warm and soft. I shut my eyes at the contact. It’s abnormal for her, for me. “Jenna,” she says softly, “I’m trying to make things better between us. I know our relationship isn’t ideal, but I am still your mother. I do care for you.”
I manage to open my eyes and focus on her troubled expression. Care? Interesting word choice. “Is that all you wanted to say?” I ask coldly. My mother’s stare lingers, turning hard as the muscles around her mouth tighten almost imperceptibly.
“Jenna, you know these cold little remarks are not helping. I’m trying to make an effort here,” she bites out.
“How? By having us design a guesthouse together? I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.” Her hand drops to her side, releasing me and my arm from her uncomfortably intimate attempt to connect.
That’s the end of that.
My two boxes are neatly stacked at the far right of the shed. They’re both pretty heavy, so I have to carry them separately to the back patio by the pool. Once they’re both out, I open the one labeled Jenna’s Work first. I reach in and take out each abstract painting one by one.
A soft smile tugs at the corner of my lips; warmth settles over me and soothes my chest. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this. There’s something about art that brings joy to my heart, always has been. It’s peaceful and beautiful. No matter how downright raw or gritty the appearance may be, there’s always a story behind it. As much as others try to figure it out, the true meaning remains with the artist alone. The paintings in this dingy cardboard box hold my secrets, my life, and my journey. They’re me…painted in different textures and colors, splashed with different emotions.
Bliss. Fear. Love. Desire. Loneliness—most of all loneliness.
Every one of my emotions is trapped in one large box.
After examining each painting, I place them back and open the second box, which holds blank canvases, paintbrushes, and wooden pieces that, once placed together, create an easel. The fleshy pads of my fingers graze along the bristles of the brushes and tingle with the desire to pick one up and start again. But I can’t. Dr. Rosario thinks I’m ready to start painting again, but there’s something within me that lurches every time I think about it. Art brings out strong feelings for me, feelings that I’m not ready to face. I decide to hold off and put the boxes away for now.
As if on autopilot, I find myself turning around and locking my bedroom door behind me.
In my room I’m safe.
With my headphones plugged into my ears and my music blasting, I’m away from everyone and everything, in a place where I can forget the world.
