I didn’t know where any of my friends were. Zac, Amber, Cloe, Taylor, Isaac; I assumed they were all off having some incredible time without me, carefree and happy, just like everyone else in the world. Everyone else, except for me. My God, I wasn’t even human. I picked up my pace, fearing that I would be late for dinner. My family. What would they do without me? Live?
As I took my place at the table, before my plate of chicken and rice, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. They were all grinning, and I couldn’t understand why. I forced a half smile back, feeling uncomfortable by the glee in the room. I hated joy when I was the only one who wasn’t allowed by God to feel it.
“Abby, we got a phone call today.” Dad began, glancing briefly at Mom. Reenie picked at her rice peacefully, shoving it around her plate in circles. I didn’t know what to say. Who would have called? Amber? Zac? I assumed one of them had tried to tell on me. I shook my head.
“It was the local newspaper. You won the poetry contest, honey.” I felt confused. What poetry contest? How did I win when I hadn’t even entered? “I didn’t submit a poem,” I murmured suspiciously, eyeing my parents. They were still smiling. “I found a poem, written by you, on your dresser. It was so good, Abby. I read about the contest, and, well…I figured you wouldn’t send it in, so I decided to,” Mom explained. My heart sunk. “Why the hell would you do a thing like that?” I demanded. Reenie froze.
“Language, Abby.” Dad warned, becoming colder quickly. Mom put down her fork. “I couldn’t resist. You have a raw, beautiful talent when it comes to writing. You should be honored.” I jumped to my feet. “You violated my privacy and sent your mistake to a publisher? You exploited me? I’m your daughter, not your Barbie doll. You can’t turn me into whatever you want. I can’t believe you!” Dad tightened his grip on his knife. “Your mother did what you would want. You should be grateful for what she’s done for you!” I glared at him, then turned to Mom.
“What poem was it?” I managed, choking on hot tears. She sighed. “I don’t remember what it was called. Please, honey, sit down, eat something, and we’ll talk about this later.” I pushed my chair backwards, hard, onto the floor. It hit the wall with a loud thud. Reenie shrieked and everyone jumped, startled by the noise. “Damn freaking right we’ll talk about it later,” I proclaimed, stomping out of the room. Mom sighed. “Abigail!” she hollered, starting after me. “Stop! Right now!” I shut her out. This was it. It was all over now. I had had enough of everything, and there was no turning back.
I went up to my bedroom, threw myself down onto the floor, and let myself feel the pain. For hours I laid there, in the depths of darkness, holding my breath, praying. What else could I do? My life, at thirteen-years-old, was gone. I had nothing more to do, to see, to say. I couldn’t trust, love, or live freely. I had nothing left within me except for words, which I had to let spill out anyway. That night, I allowed my thoughts, my dreams, and my life out onto fragile, white pieces of notebook paper, smearing the ink with tears that I couldn’t stop.
I remembered when, years ago, when I was nine, I had written a report for reading class about writing. I had described it as, “cutting my wrists and letting them bleed out onto the paper.” It was such a morbid, terrible thing to read; knowing that it came from a child. I hadn’t meant it; I had seen it as merely some poetic, descriptive way to say that I let myself go in writing. It hurt to mean it literally now. Just like everything else. Everything, even just breathing, hurt.
Chapter15-The Last Time
