No.

No, I don't wanna get up. I don't wanna open my eyes. I don't wanna deal with them.

...

I open my eyes and look around my dark room. The lights currently off as I awaken for school. My room, although not well lit, is burned into my mind. A dresser on the left wall with nerdy figurines and trinkets placed on top. My bed lies in the dead center, and after a break between the blue sheeted bed and a wardrobe used to store my works, there is an open part of the room, containing some of my father's possessions, broken down computers and TV parts, and on the wall, two closests. One used for my clothes, and one for my dad's stuff.

I decide not to head upstairs quite yet, and open the wardrobe, admiring my years of work. I grab an old notebook and begin to read it. It speaks of a tale of gods and demons and a war between them. Basic stuff, ametaur hour. Something I wrote years ago. Something I wrote when I was bad at writing...

And I still am. I close the notebook and head upstairs. My parents, my father a man with a slim, slightly muscular build, about nine inches taller than me with brown hair, balding from the sides, and greying, and my mother, a shorter woman, shorter than me by about a head with long, dark brown hair, a thin, frail build, and a face aged by her endless scowling and the bitterness in her hazel eyes.

I begin to panic as I notice my brother isn't here. I don't like him much, but I can deflect attention to him, and they're less harsh on him. Me though, the hate from them is unrelenting. I quietly sit down, grabbing a breakfast bar from a cupboard where we keep all the snacks. I never did like eating breakfast. I can't eat when I first get up.

I eat my breakfast as my heart pounds in my chest, as I silently await their harsh words. When my brother does get up, I slip away back to the bottom floor of our two floor house. The second floor is underground, and it's where I sleep. That way, I'm far away from them.

I enter the basement restroom, naseua welling up within me. I burp, and it grows into an acidic, burning feeling in my throat. Triggering a gag that results in vomit.

I quickly clasp my hand to my mouth, catching most of it. The rest splatters to the floor. I rinse off my hand of the clear, gooey liquid and wipe it off the floor, as to prevent my parents or my brother from finding out.

I find myself oddly soothed by the regurgitation. Expessialy since it'll help me lose some of these extra pounds I've been meaning to shed. I look in the mirror, removing my shirt to view my torso. The upper half is OK, with the ribcage visable clearly, but the lower half is just awful. My stomach is much to large. It stretches out just to my ribcage. Maybe if I were thinner, girls would actually like me. I mean, what else could it be? Well, besides my countless other issues, like my common brown eyes and hair, my acne, and my lack of muscles. My acne isn't that bad, but it's still bad. The only thing I can control is this damnable belly fat. Why am I so fat?

I sigh and head upstairs, trying to avoid any attention as the others get ready for the day. Due to my smaller, more reasonable breakfast, I'm ready way earlier. Everyone's so busy though. Can I just...

I sneak out my phone and open a word document. I look up, fearing it, waiting for it, expecting the harsh words...

My dad's still half asleep, so he doesn't notice, and my mom is to busy to care. Better that way anyways. I begin writing, calming my rapid heart rate. I weave a magical tale of heroes and gods, and I'm on a roll...

Until I hit the romance scene. I've never liked writing romance scenes. Never really understood them. I mean, love, does it even exist? I'm starting to think it doesn't. I've never been in a relationship. Hell, I'm sixteen and haven't even had my first kiss. Where there should be love in my heart, is an itching. An endless desire to write, like a ravenous hunger.

I write to sooth this itching. Sometimes, it even speaks to me. Telling me to write more, and destroy those who stop me from doing so.

My dad stretches and looks at me. Panic washes over me as he glares at my phone. "Get off your phone!" He roars with pure wrath.

I'm not done scratching. The itching, the desire to fill the loveless void, is still strong...

I'm forced to comply, afraid of what could happen if I disobey. "We should be writing," the voice whispers, "he's in our way. Teach him a lesson."

The naseua returns, so I quickly head to the restroom, claiming, "I left my math notes downstairs."

I head to the basement, and approach the white toilet as my shoes tap on the white tile. I try to vomit again, but there's nothing left. Damn it. I'm just gonna dry heave for a while aren't I?

I dry heave again and again, but there's nothing. I collect myself, as not to be forced to stay home. I can't stay here. This house is Hell. At least at school, I'm safe. I have my reasons why I'm safer there, but even there...

I can't shake the thoughts of my appearance, or the itching. I decide to head upstairs, as my mom and brother get in her car. A black van with tinted windows. Why are the windows tinted? Because style. However, it makes me think about how I hide my feelings again. If my face was glass, it too would be tinted.

The sky is couldy, and the Spring air moist and cool. We get in the car, and mom begins to drive us to school...