𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂

I can just about see the birds chirping outside, greeting the awakening sun that's gradually rising above the horizon, the morning haze softly glistening through my small window. The sky is a mixture of swirls of different shades of blue with peering hues of white clouds tainted with a faint light pink. That's how everyone else sees the world though, and unfortunately 'everyone' doesn't quite include me. I see . . . grey. And more grey. And even more grey. It's just this massive expanse of greyness that consumes the world, like the sky is a dull canvas and the streaks of clouds are bird poo. Weird comparison, I know. I wouldn't mind looking at the dreamy sky a little longer if it isn't for the dull aching in my shoulder. It's quite surprising for a typical January morning in England, considering it was raining heavily only yesterday, but then again, that's typical January English weather for you.

Beep. Beep.

The monotonous alarm sound reminds me that I need to get ready for school. Or prison. They're both the same thing anyway. I have seven alarms, because I know that one alarm won't wake me up. Although it might seem pretty pointless, I do usually get up eventually.

Ok, maybe not.

07:07
07:14
07:17
07:24
07:27
07:44
07:47

It's 07:47 and I quickly sit up, massaging my shoulder, trying to revive my dead arm. I take a look at my phone, and of course - like any other day - I realise that I'm late: I need to leave in only half an hour. And though that sounds like a lot of time, it isn't. Not for me anyway. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't take me half an hour to actually get ready, it's more like . . . the process of getting ready . . . ? I don't really know. I can do things quickly, it's just that my mind doesn't let me. It might sound confusing but I guess it's just a weird concept to grasp. I don't quite understand it myself.

Slowly, I put my right foot down onto the rough, beige carpet below me. I swipe my foot over it four times, but it doesn't quite feel right, so I do it again three more times to make it add up to seven. But the thing is that I don't like the number three; I just don't associate the number with anything good, it just reminds me of . . . death, or a skull sign or something toxic or poisonous, so I try to avoid it every chance I get. I don't even like mentioning it, or saying it, because it brings dark thoughts to my head that I know shouldn't be there.

I swipe my foot over the carpet an additional seven times to balance it out. Four add the forbidden number is seven. Seven add seven is fourteen, which ends in four so, I guess it's finally ok.

No, you did it an extra time. That makes it fifteen. You don't want to get cancer, do you?

Oh no, no, no, no, no. Please don't tell me I have to do it again.

Just do it again. Stop being a baby, it's better to be safe than sorry.

Why does fifteen just so happen to have the number five in it? I'm not quite sure when, but at some point I kind of just associated five with cancer. I know it doesn't make any sense, but I just don't know how to undo my thinking. It's so incredibly frustrating with all these numbers in my head that have so many different meanings, and I can't even control what I think. And I guess it really sounds stupid, but it makes sense in my head . . . kind of . . . well, not really, but I try to make it make sense the best I can.

"Serenity, get up! We're going to be late!"

That's my sister, Bethany, complaining while probably brushing her hair or admiring herself in the bathroom that we all share once she's done knocking on my door. She's eighteen, around two years older than me, and can be a drama queen at times. She acts overly bossy, but she's decent enough for me to call her my sister. Given that she sometimes does my maths and physics homework - a pretty good bonus if you ask me - she's incredibly smart and gets the highest test scores in every subject, even now in Sixth Form, despite the work being so much harder. Well, she was pretty bad at drama and music when she was younger; that's pretty ironic, considering she's the confident and dramatic one.

Another noticeable thing about Beth is that she is gorgeous. She has mid-length, silky, midnight black hair and beautifully big, brown eyes. Not that I'd ever straight up tell her that though. To be fair, I'm pretty sure she already knows, because she attracts attention wherever she goes.

Oh, I'm a poet and I didn't even know it.

I'm distracted from my unusual, overly nice thoughts when I faintly hear my other sister, Mellanie, mutter from behind the thin wall that's separating our bedrooms.

"Is she still not awake? What is wrong with her?"

"I'm literally awake!" I yell back, my voice drenched in exasperation. Isn't it just annoying when someone tells you to do something when you are literally doing it?

Mella is my little sister. She's just this overly happy and energetic person and I have no clue how she does it. How she doesn't just look at the sky and feel her mood instantly dampen is beyond me. She's eleven and she's in Year 7.

Dayum, I'm good at this rhyming thing.

No, you're not good at anything.

And just like Beth, she's stunning. She has glistening brown eyes and a head of beautiful, brown hair that stops just below her shoulders.

"Oh, will you just hurry up and get out of bed? I need to be at school early today, you idiot!" Bethany reiterates, the malice evident in her voice. "Mella gets a late mark every day, all because of you!"

You heard them. You're an idiot. It's all because of you, you, you, you, you. YOU. What is wrong with YOU?

"Serenity!"

"Oh, right sorry," I say nonchalantly, all traces of annoyance removed from my voice, but I just can't help but think back to what they said. I know they don't mean it, but it's hard to ignore.

I always remember the things people say to me; the words claw to the walls of my skull and overtime they become heavier and heavier and heavier, dense enough to collapse, to self-destruct and disintegrate, leaving me to dwell on what I could've done better, what I can do to prevent people from being disappointed again.

But then I give up. I try my hardest to be better only to realise that they'll forever be disappointed in me. I'll forever be the person that will never be enough for anyone. Sometimes it can be hard to accept, but it is what it is.

I get up slowly, trying to forget the endless strings of insults replaying through my mind like a broken record, but I can hardly see where I'm going. I really shouldn't have been up till half three, but oh well; I managed to achieve around four hours of sleep.

Key word: achieve.

I get four hours of sleep on a good day. Days like those rarely ever happen, and although it appears to be a "good" day today, I know it won't be for long.

Did you check what time you got off the bed?

I curtly rush over to my bed harshly grabbing my phone. The screen instantly lights up, displaying the important digits that foolishly control my thoughts.

07:52

They're going to die. They're going to die. They're going to die.

No they're not. Nobody is dying.

Yes they are. It ends in a two. Fix it. Fix it. FIX IT.

I patiently wait for my screen to read 07:54, observing the little ticking hand on the clock app reach at exactly the midway point between the seven and eight, before I swiftly press the power button on the side so I don't have to look at the dreaded numbers. I groggily trudge my feet along the rough carpet, that's been worn out from the many times I've practically abused it, the multiple occurrences every day as I swipe my hands and feet over it, waiting until my mind believes it to be perfect.

Suddenly, my door bursts open and Mella walks in, face red with fury, looking like a kettle ready to explode. She doesn't say anything, the tips of her fingers rhythmically drumming against her hips and she stands there momentarily.

"Well," I look at her expectantly, "you going to get out of my room or what?"

"I'm just checking to see that you won't go back to bed."

"Well I'm not, so you can go now." I desperately need her to leave, because I don't want her to see me repeatedly wiping the wardrobe handle.

"Get your clothes out so I know you're actually going to change and not be a lazy bum by going back to sleep."

My mind is contemplating what to do. I guess I could just open it, grab my uniform and watch her leave, but I know that I'll have to redo it all once she's left. I guess I'm left with no other option.

Cautiously, I lift my hand up ready to touch the handle, wavering slightly, going over my options once again.

Come on, you can do it.

No, no, no. You have to first wipe it with the end of your shirt four times like you always do.

Just do it. You'll do it again afterwards anyway.

"What are you waiting for? Chop chop!"

I touch the handle feeling its cool, metal cylindrical shape that becomes enveloped by my tingling fingers. I start to regret my choice, because the thoughts start swirling around in my mind, clouding every brain cell. I hurriedly grab the clothes and watch Mella's dainty, slender frame slip out of my room.

Put it back and do it again.

No. You don't have time for that, you'll be here forever.

But I need to do it again.

Dad's going to forget to pull the handbrake up when he parks the car. You're going to die. You're all going to die. All the surrounding people are going to die. There'll be no kids left in school. It'll all be your fault. The school will close down, you'll get put in jail.

Come on Serenity, no one's going to die. And even if they did, no one would know it was your fault.

Die. Die. Die. Everyone's going to DIE.

I violently wrench open the closet door and stuff my uniform back inside. I close it again and look around. I feel so alone. Everything just feels so . . . dark. I can feel my heart gradually beating faster, like I'm running without any destination in mind, like my breath is being whisked away by the nonexistent wind. It's already almost 8 o'clock and I haven't worn my clothes, haven't made the bed, haven't brushed my hair or my teeth. I haven't even got my bag ready. I haven't done anything. I feel so unprepared, like I've just been put into an unfamiliar, alternate universe with no possible way of escape. I'm all alone. All by myself.

No one can save me.

I pull up the end of my shirt and wipe the handle four times.

Car . . . brake . . . accident . . . school . . . children . . . Mella . . . Beth . . . die . . .

And another four times.

Die . . . die . . . die . . .

My breath becomes more ragged with each passing heartbeat.

Die . . .

And another four times, anything to try and stop the voices invading my mind.

No one's dying. No one.

I desperately grasp onto that voice, that faint voice of hope. The small inking of hope that's slowly diminishing day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Second by second.

Come on Serenity . . . just stop . . . you're going to be late . . . you're going to make Mella and Beth late . . . they'll hate you.

Well, it's not like they don't already.

No, they don't hate you.

Yeah, they just . . . dislike you.

That's literally the same thing.

Hate is a strong word.

Exactly. Hate perfectly describes how they dislike you.

Ok, this is getting confusing.

No, it's simple, they hate you.

At this rate I'll be here all day, the constant bickering in my mind never coming to an end. It's always constantly swarming with buzzes of words, sounds, sentences . . . anything and everything - constantly whizzing around my head, looking for a way of escape. But of course, there is none. The evil thoughts never leave, they're always there, stuffed in the back of my mind and then randomly popping out, preventing me from doing whatever I need to do.

It's frustrating, so incredibly frustrating. I can't do anything; I just feel helpless and in a way I'm just like my thoughts - I have no way of escape. I'm trapped. In my own mind. My own prison.

I don't have time for this.

Without giving my brain time to think, I pull the wardrobe door open. Sometimes, I feel like I have to trick myself . . . trick my brain into resetting, even if it's just for five seconds, to force myself into getting something done. And it works . . . sometimes.

08:00 is the time that my phone reads. It's only been six minutes, but it feels like it's been an eternity.

Wow. It takes you six minutes just to take your uniform out.

In a rush, I take my pyjamas off - a basic grey t-shirt and dark grey jogging bottoms. They're soft and comfortable; I think comfort always comes first when it comes to clothing, but whoever made the school uniforms clearly wasn't thinking straight. My uniform consists of a black blazer with the school logo emblazoned on the top left pocket, a white button up shirt, a stripy tie with the school logo embroidered in white, black trousers or a black skirt, black or dark grey socks and black school shoes. I used to wear a skirt back in primary, but as I got older, I looked weird in them compared to other girls and I didn't want my legs showing, so I just stuck to wearing loose trousers. Most of the girls in school that wear trousers don't even wear the correct ones; they wear skin tight, black skinny jeans or even leggings if they're bold enough, but I don't think I could ever muster enough courage to ever go out like that. Teachers used to go round constantly telling them off and threatening to send an email home to their parents, but eventually they just gave up. None of the students are going to listen anyway, so I don't blame the teachers.

I slide into my uncomfortable school shirt, and once I've slipped into my trousers, I slap on my tie and tighten it, bringing it higher up towards my neck.

Do it really, really tight . . .

What? No!

Yeah, but y'know . . . what if you just . . .

Oh my days, what am I thinking?

Oh come on! It's not like you've never thought about it before.

Gosh, why are you doing this to me?

Serenity you're doing this to yourself.

Yeah, we're just figments of your imagination, your own mind, your own brain. You're the one that controls us. You're the one that thinks these horrid thoughts, not us. Jeez, what kind of horrible person are you? One that pretends there's someone controlling your brain? Gosh you're one horrible person, you can't blame anyone. This whole voices thing . . . it's all you. Maybe you're just crazy.

And that's exactly it. Maybe I am. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I am mental. There's just so many conflicting thoughts and images and memories and I can't control them. There is so much going on in my head and I can't control any of it. I just feel helpless like I'm surrounded by buzzing bees and they won't leave me alone, threatening to sting me with every step I take in hope of a possible way of escape.

Just be quick and wear your uniform then.

Once I'm done, I throw my clothes onto my unmade bed. My pyjamas are now haphazardly strewn across the crinkled sheets.

You'd think that if I want everything to be done perfectly - like wanting my clothes to be folded immaculately to a crisp edge - I would make sure to fold and stack them or hang them up meticulously. Well, you're wrong. Usually on school days, in the morning, I just chuck my clothes onto the bed. I'm way too tired to think, especially at this time in the morning. Sometimes I feel like being neat and sometimes I don't. But in reality it isn't really up to me at all: all the decisions and confusion and confliction and desperation - it's all being conjured up in my head. I have no control and that's what worries me: that one day I'll be a complete and utter mess beyond the ability of being saved. And who knows, maybe I already am.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know what I'll end up becoming if I keep thinking like this. I don't want to think there's something wrong with me, I don't want to prove my sister right, but sometimes I just can't help it; with everything that goes on in my head, it's difficult not to have a shadow of doubt lurking around in my mind.

As I watch the time change to exactly 08:04, I rush to the bathroom, almost banging my pinky toe on the end of the door.

Phew, that was close.

I find myself staring at my reflection, analysing every little thing I hate about myself. I look awful. Terrible. Horrendous even. I make an attempt at waking myself up a bit more by splashing cold water on my face, with the slight hope that it could wash away all my imperfections along with the fatigue. But when I gaze back into the mirror, I look the same, except this time my eyes aren't as squinted and I can see the unpleasantness staring back at me a lot clearer. My lifeless eyes are puffy and swollen, my dull, greyish irises surrounded by a blanket of red. My skin feels like a desert, with no evident signs of moisture or hydration. I've never been particularly bothered about my skin, but growing older meant dots of acne, and being the person that always ruins everything, I picked at the spots until they became faint marks on my skin. Really, it's not the acne I'm worried about, it's the scars. They don't look particularly welcoming and I just feel . . . ugly.

I always tell myself that no one is ugly, because it's true, no one is. People just like to make others feel like they are, because they might not look quite like what others think "pretty" looks like. If there were to be the whole concept of 'ugly', I'd say that it's whatever's on the inside that really makes you 'ugly', and in my definition, 'ugly' just means 'not very likeable'. You could be Miss Universe, or whatever you want to call it, but if you're not kind or helpful or understanding, then to me you're not very likeable.

On the other hand, when it comes to me, I'm a completely different subject. I feel like I can be the only exception, but then it just makes me seem very ungrateful. I'm not ungrateful though, I'm glad that I have working body parts and not a serious skin condition or a life threatening disease, but that's what I worry about a lot - that something tragic will happen.

I continue to scrutinise my reflection. My hair is an unruly mess, sticking out in different directions and the matted, brown locks look more like bales of hay covered in poo rather than my usual brown hair. I pull my hair out of its messy, twisted plait and glare at it in the mirror. I used to have thick, shimmering brown hair, but overtime, I developed more things to worry about, things that my mind believed to be much more important than keeping my hair tidy. My hair's a very dark brown at the roots and gradually turns into a lighter dark brown at the bottom, so much so that in the sunlight it sort of looks golden. I rarely ever go into the sun. I rarely go anywhere. I rarely even leave my house, I'm too tired to even venture into our spacious garden at the back. I only ever leave to go to school and my time in that jail is complete torture.

"Serenity it's 08:15! Hurry up! We need to leave in five minutes. You're taking forever!" Beth yells, from the top of her lungs. I can tell she's at the bottom of the stairs at the other end of the hallway, because her voice feels distant yet her strained voice tells me that if I don't hurry up now, she'll probably come back up and physically drag me downstairs herself.

I quickly retie my hair into a basic plait and then do my business, before plopping some toothpaste onto my toothbrush and vigorously brushing my teeth. My teeth aren't too bad. I have a slight gap between my two front teeth but it isn't prominent enough for it to be noticed straight away. The whole set of bottom teeth are relatively straight but my gums aren't ideal. Sometimes they get itchy which I know doesn't exactly make sense. When I was younger I used to always think my teeth were itchy, but then I realised it was probably my irritated gums. Sometimes, when I brush too hard at the bottom, they start bleeding. And that's exactly what's happening right now. I spit out the foamy liquid from my mouth and realise it's tinted red ever so slightly.

I fill up my mouth with fresh, cold tap water and gargle, almost choking on the water. I tend to do that a lot. One day I'll probably die from doing something really stupid or something that's meant to be really basic . . . like gargling water. I spit out the cloudy liquid from my mouth.

Do it again.

Oh my days. This is going to take a while and I can already imagine Mella and Beth chastising me for my slow pace.

Spit it out. Beth is going to die, die, DIE.

Spit.

Do it again. Mella is going to die, die, DIE.

Spit.

Again. You're going to die, die, DIE.

Spit.

And again. It'll be all your fault . . .

Spit.

Once I've done it four times, I realise I've forgotten one consequential detail . . . I forgot to brush my tongue. I know it might sound weird but it's something I have to do every time I brush my teeth. Without wasting any time I shove the toothbrush to the back of my tongue.

Gag.

I bring it forward to the front and then back again.

Go all the way to the back.

Gag.

Two more times.

On the second one, my body lurches forward, my long plait smacking me in the face. I feel sick yet I don't feel sick enough to actually vomit. I can wretch and lurch and gag all I want but nothing will happen . . . the repulsive feeling will always stay. I feel my eyes water, tears threatening to infiltrate my dark under eyes and trickle down my face before invading the stitches of my uniform. I feel horrible and disgusting and repulsive yet I know that from an outside perspective there'll be no signs showing . . . none portraying how broken I am.

It doesn't make any sense.

I feel like I'm broken, a t-shirt ripped apart and unable to be sewn together, like a toy car without a wheel.

Maybe you should write a poem about that later.

And maybe I will.

I hear the front door opening, a signal that if I don't go downstairs now then I'll be left behind. My family wouldn't actually do that though.

But what if they do?

I wipe the tap with the bottom of my sleeve to remove the watermarks that stain the gleaming metal.

Do it again.

I bring my sleeve back up and clutch onto it tightly, hastily sliding my arm over the tap seven times.

One plus seven is eight. Eight is way too close to nine. And nine is three squared.

Wow you can do maths, well done.

So three squared is basically nine . . . deaths. I can't let that happen.

Make it add up to a better number then. And hurry up, you're going to get in so much trouble for being late.

I wipe the tap four more times before stealthily bounding out the bathroom and into my room that's only a metre away. Eight add four is twelve, but in the moment, luckily, I don't feel like doing it again. I grab my black backpack that's discarded on the floor and shove my books inside - taking a brief glance at each one to make sure they're the right ones. Immediately, I grab my black puffer coat and rush down the hallway, turning left before bursting into her room, finding her tucked snuggly under her duvet. Despite the unusual sunny weather, it's still fairly cold - British weather really can be deceiving. I give my mum an abrupt kiss on the forehead before she chides me, of course, on something I really couldn't care less about.

"Serenity! You're making everyone late. You do this everyday!" she scolds, before glancing up and down, taking in my awful appearance. "And please look a little more . . . presentable." The secondhand embarrassment is clear on her face as her face scrunches up when her eyes observe my hair. "Gosh, Serenity, you really need to fix that hair. Bethany and Mellanie can take care of theirs, why can't you?" Of course - the typical comparisons. They never end, no matter what I do, they will always be better.

"Okay, okay, love you!" I blurt, veering away from talking about what I look like. I really ought to leave, but my mum is one stubborn woman with very contradictory ideas. It just doesn't make sense. One second she'll be telling me to hurry up and the next she'll be telling me to stay, in most cases telling me off for something that really isn't a big deal, or making comments about how I'm dressed as if I'm not standing right in front of her.

I bound down the stairs and wear my basic, black school shoes, which are in dire need of a polish, while wearing my comforting, black, puffy coat and glancing at the people waiting in front of me. Mella and Beth are outside waiting. I take a look at them, drinking in their appearance: Beth's hair is curled effortlessly into defined, bouncy curls, while Mella's short hair is pulled into a silky, sleek ponytail. Beth has her large, black handbag (something that all the popular girls seem to own) positioned on her wrist and she's scrolling through her phone, while Mella has her pastel pink backpack gracefully slung over her shoulder. They look so smart and trendy and fashionable. I could go on and on and on. Dad's standing beside the shoe rack, gesturing for me to walk out the big front door.

When I step outside, I take a look at my reflection through the translucent, dirty glass panel embedded into the door. I can see how much of a mess I look. My hair somehow looks more static and tangled than when I woke up - a feat I didn't even think was possible. I can definitely see how prominent the shadows under my eyes are, palpable evidence of my late night (or early morning) struggles. I feel like I'm missing something though, but I can't pinpoint exactly what I'm deprived of.

Sleep, probably.

Bro this is not the time for jokes.

It's pretty funny though, can't lie.

No, not really. I feel like I've just ran a marathon.

Okay, that's a bit exaggerated.

"About time . . ." my sisters say in unison, their voices sounding condescending with hints of annoyance.

"Pfft take a chill pill," I say, brushing off their chiding. "I'm not even that late, I don't get why you're making such a big deal out of this. It's only 08:22, and there isn't even much traffic. People are probably walking to school today. It's sunny if you haven't noticed." My voice is dripping in sarcasm, but they certainly don't find it amusing.

They fast walk towards the car that's parked round the corner and I trudge behind them, trying to think of what I possibly could have forgotten, but nothing comes to mind.

"Serenity, you're so selfish. All you care about is yourself. Haven't you stopped to think that we're the ones that'll be late and not you?" Mella seethes, clenching her jaw. I detect the underlying current of raw rage that's lacing her voice. I can tell she wants to say more.

You're selfish. So, so, selfish.

"Um sorry, but you know I didn't mean it like that. I meant that we didn't leave the house that late, not that we're not going to be late to school. You only start ten minutes before me anyway. It's not exactly my fault that Beth has an extended assembly in the morning and it isn't my fault that your form room is at the other side of the school, so I ju—"

"You're just digging the hole deeper and deeper." Beth glares at me from the front seat, a resentful look in her eyes. I decide to ignore her cryptic messages and turn towards Mella.

"I just thought that y'know . . . you could . . . like . . . chill a little bit. The only reason we're late usually is because of the traff—"

"You. The only reason we're late is because of you. You can't blame anything else, because it's literally your fault. You're the one that takes ages to get out of bed, you're the one that takes ages in the bathroom and you're the one that looks like a monstrosity."

Damn, that's a big word for a Year 7.

"And you're the one that's so clumsy and forgetful. I bet you've probably forgotten something today as well!" Her face is red, her voice hoarse from shouting too loud. Her tone is laced with a sort of painless venom that corrodes my ability to respond. And the worst part is . . . she's right. I know I've forgotten something, but I just don't know what.

My dad lets out a melodramatic sigh after Mella's outburst. "Serenity, leave your sister alone. Just stay quiet, you've already given me a headache with all your blabbering."

And that is exactly why I don't talk at school. No one likes my voice, no one ever wants to hear what I have to say. I just want to let it all out, scream at the top of my lungs and feel like I'm on top of the world, but I don't think I'll ever be able to do that, especially not now when I'm sitting next to a pissed off eleven-year-old. The pang of hurt remains in my chest, but my stoic facade can only last for so long. What he said about me blabbering wasn't even that bad, yet I still can't help but feel offended. I'm always quiet at school. I just let the hurtful words and snarky comments sink in like an anchor in a raging sea, but at home I just want to talk and talk and talk, because who else would really listen to me other than my family? No one. And as much as I want my family to be happy to talk to me, they aren't. They don't want to hear whatever I'm going to say, and even when they do, they're just completely expressionless, acting completely impassive. It just constantly leaves me to think: what's the point of talking if no one wants to listen?

"Sorry . . ." I mutter, my voice almost inaudible.

I watch my Dad insert the keys and he turns the engine on. I just want to have a normal day at school, a day without any drama or yelling or chaos. Is that really too much to ask for?

Apparently so.

I'm in England - school is never  "normal" . . . and it doesn't help that as I'm analysing the waves of fury rushing across Mella's face, I suddenly remember what I've forgotten . . .

my stupid PE kit.

Oh today is going to be a very long day . . .

***

Hi, hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I'll try and make it a little more interesting but I just wanted to give an idea of what Serenity's family are like in the first chapter and how she thinks, because it will be easier to understand her throughout the book.

If you haven't already read the Disclaimer at the start of this book please make sure you read it.

Just to clarify, Serenity is 15 (almost 16, but that'll come up in a later chapter) and she's in Year 11 (10th grade). Mella is 11 and she's in Year 7 (6th grade). Beth is 18 and is in Year 13 (12th grade), which means she is in Sixth Form.

Let me know what you think of this book so far and how you think I could improve. Sorry if this isn't to the quality you might have been expecting but I tried really hard and this is my first story, so opinions would be highly appreciated. I'm just a 14-year-old trying to get better at writing, so if there's anything you'd like to point out it would really help me improve.

I also kind of just want to rant about life and I think this is the best way to do it, and I'll be able to actually get something out of it too so . . . win win.

The picture at the top of the chapter is a sunset photo that I took outside my bathroom window, but I edited it to look a bit brighter like it was taken in the morning, and it looks like what I envisioned when I was writing this chapter.

Thanks for reading :)

Much love,

Haniah.