• Chapter One















    I wake up screaming, sweat pouring involuntarily from my bleeding forehead. Another nightmare. It was the same one every night, running, blindly from something unknown, falling, bleeding, running again. The pain stung my wet forehead and I realized I wasn’t sweating at all. Blood poured from my pounding head, as if any beat would be its last. I got up searching for a towel, or something to stop my crimson sweat.

    Half asleep, I stumble drunkly into my pink Barbie bathroom, cringing at the light. I fumble clumsily with the towel and hold it tightly to my head, sighing when I notice the bright, burning scars tattooed on my arms. I’m suddenly swallowed by mixed emotions about why they are there. Soon the tingling numbness that the pain subdued was slowing. I glance sheepishly at the burning eyes of the clock, 2:30.

    Clocks always seem to be counting down to your final moments, and when you don’t die, they give up and start over. Dreamlessly, I fall into an engulfing sea of black, calming me into a warm numb. Morning arrives, and sun peeks over the blue ocean, shyly




    rising over my head. I wipe the green sleep from the dark rings that have surrounded my eyes for awhile, glancing at the array of black and reds that are arranged around.

    Walking, almost falling, down the stairs, I follow my screaming stomach to the kitchen. Gawking at the week old dirty dishes, I decide to just eat my cocoa puffs out of the box, grab my 2,000 pound backpack, and drag my feet out to the car. I pull out of my cracked, cement driveway, onto the cracked, cement street, and am on my way to school.


    The door’s grey, steel handle seemed to be cemented into place. I shoved it with all the strength I could manage to acquire. Locked out of school, great, just what I needed today. Smoke peeled its way through my icy lips and into the frigid air. I busied myself counting the bricks on the wall. I desperately pleaded no one would notice me, unlock the doors, and send me off to class.

    Nightmares replayed themselves once more. Running, blindly from something unknown, falling, bleeding, running again. I woke up screaming, and the office attendant came running in a big huff to let me in. “Are you ok honey?” I lowered my head, either out of shame, or because I could feel the hysterical laughter bubbling inside my chest.
    “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    “O.K. What’s your name sweetie?”
    “Aleesa Barnes”
    “Oohh, Aleesa Barnes, you are off to see Mr. Kennick today.”
    ‘Great,’ I thought to myself, ‘him again.’ She scribbled something on a red square that I assumed was a pass. I took baby steps all the way there, trying to waste as much time as possible. I arrived at the big, white, room labeled “Behavioral Needs Office” Wow; they sure do know how to make us feel like freaks don’t they?


    I peek in and hear an unfamiliar voice that stuns me into an awkward position, “Hello, Aleesa. We’ve been waiting for you.” Taking the smallest steps I could, I collapse into the cushioned leather chair, I notice Mr. Kennick isn’t the only one here. He is accompanied by a blonde woman who looks like she just got of the runway at Hollywood. Also surrounding us is two police guards, in case trouble emerges. “How has your day been?”
    “Okay I guess.”
    “That’s good. So I’ve been reading thorough your files, and I see you live with your dad?”
    “No,” I reply sharply, “my dad died last month, I live alone.”
    “What about your mom?”
    “Can I use the restroom?”
    “Sure.”




    Nearly breaking the door, I sprint through the hallway into the graffiti lined bathroom. Look under the stall doors, and then head for the paper towel dispenser. I place my scarred wrist over the sharp blades and move back with a jerk. It felt good, the scream
    inside. Trickles of blood traced the delicate veins of my wrist. I pull my black sweatshirt neatly over the new scarred skin.

    All of the hallways were empty. My red Reeboks made a squeaking echo, as I clutched my sweatshirt sleeve for dear life, worrying I would be sent home again. Stuffing my sweatshirt in my oversized pocket, I retreat to the big, echoing white room.

    As I walked back in, the room seemed unchanged by my absence, the blonde was still scribbling aimlessly on a piece of tan paper, and Mr. Kennick was still reading my file. “Welcome back,” an echoing voice beamed. I restate my claim on the cold leather chair, and wait for the next knife to enter my long stored away memories. “So, as I was saying about your mom...” It was only a matter of time.
    “I don’t want to talk about her.” I grimaced, clutching tightly to my sweatshirt as my blood stained the fleece lining.

    “What was it like with your parents?” He mutters something more that is just out of ear shot. Staring blankly at his face, I count nearly every hair on his head. Several minutes later, I realize your still talking. Fidgeting, I pretend to pay attention