The bus squeals to a stop in front of my dilapidated house, and I make my way to the front of the bus. No one says anything as I get off, moving slowly now. My outburst earlier has left me stiff. I think I opened a few of the fresher wounds too.

But the physical ailments aren't the worst. My emotional pain is by far the worst of it. I can barely hold back the tears as I run up the slippery steps, nearly losing my footing as I rush into the house. Warm air blasts into my face as I shove open the door and drop my backpack on the pitted tabletop in the kitchen. Then I sink down into the rickety chair at the table and bury my head in my arms as I sob.

What am I supposed to do? They told him my real name... He'll probably come looking for me like Millie did. And it'll get him hurt too.

Desolation sweeps over me as a weak ray of sunshine finds its way in through the window and spills onto the kitchen floor. I stare at it, feeling as cold and chilled as the light looks on the kitchen floor. The smell of cigarettes and vodka lingers in the air from this morning. The scent of dying roses from Mom's last date floats about with it, making a nauseating smell of decay and endings. Really, every new beginning in this house is just an ending in disguise. An ending waiting to happen. Nothing ever lasts. Even I won't last. Someday, I'll snap, and everything will end for me too.

***

I wake up a few hours later around the time that I have to start dinner. Despite the two hour nap, I still feel exhausted and miserable. Snow is coming down outside in full force, the flurries blowing against the window forcefully.

Stretching, I get up and move my backpack to its usual spot in the linen closet. Dinner... What did Mom want me to make? Checking the note on the fridge, I see that she wants ravioli tonight. Sighing, I shrug. At least that's relatively easy. She can't be too mad at me if she asked for this.

The ravioli are still frozen, so I shove them into the microwave first to thaw them a bit. Then I put them into a pot to cook and set the whole thing on the stove. Then I dig through the cupboards for sauce and put that into our only other pot. With that done, I settle into my spot at the kitchen table to do my homework. Math homework is so tedious, but I have to get all of this stuff done.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock sounds on the front door just as I open my English homework. Who could it be? Mom isn't supposed to be back for another ten minutes. She's never early. Usually, she's on time or late. I'm never really sure which it'll be.

Sighing, I get up and abandon my English homework to get the door. If Mom gets back and finds out that I left one of her friends hanging out in the cold, I'm going to be in a whole lot of trouble. Better to open the door and find out who it is.

Milan stands there, shivering in the wind that howls through the area. I freeze, unable to form words or move. He can't be here! He has to leave... I... Mom's going to be really mad if she finds out he's come here.

"Meri?" Milan wraps his arms around himself and smiles tightly. "C-can I come in? It's c-cold out here..."

I shake my head, trying to shut the door on him. "N-no..." My voice shakes as much as his, and I'm not even out in the freezing cold. But a chill washes over me as I watch him watch me.

He sticks a foot in the crack before I can slam the door shut in his face. "Meri, I just wanted to talk to you. Why won't you let me in?"

"Go a-away," I hiss, stumbling over words in my haste to make him go.

"I'm not leaving. I walked all the way here from school, and I know there's something wrong. You don't cut... I know you don't, and those bruises aren't from falling. So what's going on?" His eyes fix on the room behind me, and I cringe, knowing that the broken bottle of vodka from this morning is still sitting in plain view. There's no way he could miss it.

I duck my head, unable to look him in the eye. "Nothing's going on. Please go. Before you get into something you can't handle."

"Isn't going to happen." He pushes back on the door.

I'm surprised, and I stumble back, tripping over a pair of my mom's shoes and landing on my butt in the middle of the entryway. Wincing, I stay there, cowering away from him. He's never shown any display of force, but he is now, so what can I expect? Will he hit me for refusing to let him in? My mom would if it was her. But it isn't her. My mind argues with me, begging me not to be so pessimistic. I freeze as Milan reaches out to me.

I turn my face away, terrified that he's going to treat me the same way my mom's ex-boyfriends have. Suddenly, I don't want him anywhere near me.

"Let me help you up... I didn't mean to knock you over," Milan says, his deep voice rumbling through the small space.

I look back up, shocked. He wants to help me? But why? I didn't let him in; I tried to slam the door in his face. Isn't he angry with me?

His hand is still extended, waiting for me to take it. Hesitantly, I reach out to take it, managing a weak smile of thanks. He grins back at me, the warmth of it trickling into me and making me feel better. I didn't really want him here, but now that he is here, I actually feel safer. Maybe that's silly, but I can't deny my feelings deep down.

"Why did you come?" I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself as I stare down at the dirty floor of the entryway.

"Because you're obviously in trouble," he says, waving off the question absently.

I watch as his eyes roam about the small entryway of the house. They flick to the dirty floor and the only cleaned spot where the smashed bottle of vodka still sits. The tightening of his lips is the only emotion displayed at this sight. Without a word, he drifts forward, heading for the kitchen.

"Pasta's boiling over," he calls when I don't follow.

Startled, I rush in and turn the stovetop off. "Oh, no..." I stare down at the mess. Water's all over the stove, and the pasta is looking overcooked. I could've sworn I only left it for a little while. Yeah, the water was already hot when I put the ravioli in, but it can't have been sitting here for that long. "H-how long were we talking?" I stammer, unable to look away from the mess.

"Maybe five minutes? You had this on high."

I let out a heavy sigh and back away from the stove, not stopping until my back hits the granite countertop and wooden cabinets of the island across from the stove. My shoulders slump, and I force back the tears. She'll know that some of the pasta is missing. She'll punish me for this. And if I can't get the food done before she gets home in the next ten minutes, I'm going to be in loads more trouble.

"Hey, what's the matter?" Milan stares at me, a slight frown creasing his brows, his arms crossed.

"I... My mom's coming home in ten minutes. Dinner was supposed to be ready. She's been working hard all day, and she'll want to eat right away. Ten minutes isn't enough to cook ravioli. They're completely frozen... These have already been cooking for about fifteen minutes before you showed up. That makes about twenty. They're supposed to cook for about thirteen minutes." I can't stop the vomit of words from coming out. It's been so long since I've had anyone to talk to or confide in. But can you really confide in Milan? The thought isn't an aimless one. It's something to be carefully considered.

I shouldn't tell him anything. It could ruin everything. My mom will get hurt if I tell anyone what's going on. She might never come to her senses if I let people take her away. I caused this mess with her seven years ago, and I've got to be the one to fix our relationship. To fix whatever it is that broke her in the first place. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I have to figure it out before it's too late for her. What about for you? My mind turns slowly, catching on that thought. I have all the time in the world, don't I? She doesn't... She's older and more fragile. I'm still young and strong.

"Meri? Meri, why are you so upset? She's not going to be that mad if dinner's not quite done when she comes home."

"You have to go," I mumble, skittering away from him as he comes closer.

I see his eyes darken. The light of hope goes out, replaced by a sad emptiness. "Why are you so scared of everyone?" he whispers, stepping back slowly. "Why are you terrified of me? I don't want you to be."

"I'm not scared of you," I protest, clutching the edge of the counter. The metal of the sink is cool beneath my fingers as I grab a cloth, my fingers shaking so badly that I can barely hold it. My stomach churns as I stand there, not daring to look at him as we face each other. The cloth is like a barrier between us as it drips water onto the kitchen floor. A steady drip, drip sound comes from the faucet as water strikes the metal basin and slides down into the drain.

Silence fills the void separating us. I can feel his eyes on me as I stand there, frozen in time. Nothing but the thud of my heart against my ribcage indicates that I'm still alive. The quiet breathing isn't audible even though I feel my chest rising and falling as I stare at the floor that I've mopped every day for the last seven years.

The room suddenly feels cold as a single tear slips down my cheek, hot against the icy state of my skin. Chills skitter down my spine as I slowly lift my eyes to Milan's. "You have five minutes to go... Don't come back."

What I don't add is that it's for his own good. Don't come back if you value your sanity and happiness. Find someone else to take care of and protect. I need you, but I'm the worst possible thing that could happen to you. Go... Go... Go... My mind begins repeating the same word over and over like a broken record player. Go...

"Meri," Milan says, bringing his hands up.

"Don't bother. Just go." I force myself to straighten and keep my voice steady. The lump in my throat grows bigger with each hard sound I force out. My gut clenches as Milan nods briskly and turns away. Everything in me wants to call out to him. To tell him that I didn't mean it. That I want him to stay and tell me it'll all be okay. To ask him to help me to figure out what to do for my mom. But I clench my teeth and dig my nails into my palms, biting back the words that so desperately want to come out. Please don't listen to me... I don't mean it, I think. But I have to stay strong and mean it.

Milan turns back to me and smiles sadly. "I'm not giving up on you. You need someone to show you what you're worth because you can't see it yourself. Next time you look into the mirror, remember that you're more special than you can ever imagine."

The soft, whispered words strike deep. They make me want to let him be a friend like he wants to be, but I keep quiet as he walks out with a weary sigh.

I may not know him well, but I can't watch another person get hurt because I've failed. Anyway, everyone leaves me eventually. So I guess it's two-fold. I hurt everyone who gets near me, and I get hurt by everyone I care about. Give up, then, why don't you? If you hurt everyone around you, just forget it. Die and be done with it.

Milan's last words echo in my mind. Next time you look into the mirror, remember that you're more special than you can ever imagine. Tears stream down my face, scalding against my chilled skin. Turning back to the stove, I clean up and start a new thing of ravioli. I know I'll be punished when my mom gets home, but I don't care anymore. I don't care. Maybe the physical pain will alleviate the emotional ache inside. Probably not, but a girl can hope, right?

Remember... Remember that you're more special than you can ever imagine. I stare blankly at the boiling pasta. I'm not. I am worthless.

Milan's soft whisper repeats again. More special than you can ever imagine.

But I know the truth. He's lucky that he isn't my friend. I burn everyone who gets close to me, and I consume myself in the process. I am nothing but worthless, smoldering wood in a fire. That's all I'll ever be no matter what Milan says.