"I'll take you home," said Matthew, sitting down next to me on the patio step.

"It's okay, I'll just call my mom. Besides, you can't drive, remember?"

"Sure I can," he scoffed, putting an arm around me and pulling me closer for warmth. "I see you've taken to wearing other people's clothes without permission."

"I have permission," I protested, feigning innocence.

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"I'm your best friend."

"Can't argue with that," Matthew laughed. It was a bright laugh, floating through the air like mist and falling over us. I liked it. I liked it when Matthew was happy. In fact I loved it, it comforted me.

"Is your mom still talking to India?" I asked, remembering the reason I had been waiting outside for half an hour.

Matthew sighed and squeezed my hand. "My mom decided to send her to therapy. But can we please talk about something else?"

I nodded and looked down at my hands, imagining one gripping my sleeve for warmth, the other entwined with Matthew's. Maybe if I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute and opened them, I could see it. For real. But still nothing. It was something I did every day, hoping that maybe this was just some horrible dream that I could wake up from.

"Hey," Matthew whispered, lifting my chin to face him. "Don't think about it."

I nodded again, swallowing stiffly. If only I could still see his hazel eyes staring back at me. If only I could still see his smile with the dimples that he hated. The smile that used to light up my day without me even realising. That smile. A mop of light brown hair. The birth mark on his cheek that made him self-conscious. His freckles. The bump on his nose. All of it. All of it was right in front of me; the image was before my eyes but somehow only in my head. It made me want to reach out and trace every feature, every crease of his face just to make sure that I remembered it right.

"I can't," I replied.

"Yes you can."

"No."

"Kayla."

"Yes?"

"I'm not blind. I don't know how you feel. Talk me through it."

I said nothing but slowly shook my head. "It can't be explained."

"Okay," was all he said after a moment. Such a simple word that held so much depth. Okay. Was it okay? Was I okay? Yes. Was I perfect? No. Was I absolutely depressed? No. Then I guess okay works.

"Tell me about you," I said suddenly.

"You know me," he replied, obviously confused.

"Tell me about school, or sport. I just want a normal conversation for once."

Matthew understood and I let him talk, about anything and everything that came to mind. He told me his soccer team had won a tournament a few weeks ago. He told me that there was a new student teacher at the school that all the guys were chasing after. He beat Jordan at table tennis last week and his mom taught him how to make cookies - which he burnt (the answer to my question of why I didn't get any).

He taught India how to play chess and she ended up smashing him (I shouted "girl power" to that). He got a new job as a coffee barrister in De Ja Vû to help save up for university. A little girl at the beach told him he was cute and I had to laugh at that. It was the sweetest thing I'd heard in a long time.

Matthew told me that life was good except for one thing. When I asked him what, he pulled me into a hug and didn't let go.

If you had told me a week ago what I would be feeling now, I would've either laughed in your face or slapped it in an effort to make you come to your senses.

It was ten days since the India debacle and in those ten days, I went on my first jog around the neighbourhood in about nine months. I made three new friends at Hillford who were in my English class. I went out with Matthew, Chloe and Jordan and we took soy sauce shots at the sushi bar. My mother said I was looking radiant and for once she didn't sound exhausted. My dad cooked us dinner that was absolutely delicious and he read my favourite book to me in front of the fireplace.

I was starting to feel less like a living skeleton and more like a human being. My mind was clear and for a whole day, I didn't think about Camryn until before I fell asleep. It was refreshing and I kept asking myself why I hadn't tried to move on sooner.

Waking up on that eleventh morning was worse than waking after my overdose. At first, everything was serene - that moment you get before reality hits you. Then it all came down on me as heavy as the ache in my head, if not worse. The dull pain spread throughout my body as I started to move my stiff limbs. I felt the back of my head and a million memories came to mind.

Quiet. Then unbearable shouts. Gasping for air. The stench of alcohol. "I love you." Rough touch. The salt of tears. "Don't you love me?"

I was brought back to the present by a knock on my door. Panic rose at the thought of someone, anyone seeing me like this. But I couldn't move. I was paralysed by both fear and my physical state. I didn't answer and no one came in. Slowly removing the covers, I attempted to sit up. I was overwhelmed by dizziness and took a moment before standing up and entering my bathroom.

Staggering. Nowhere to go. Fire. Anger. Helplessness. A cry. "You're supposed to love me."

I ran a hand over my face, tracing the features like I do when I meet someone. How ironic that I would forget how my own face looks like. I stopped at the tender skin below my right eye and hoped and prayed that there wasn't a bruise. But I knew my efforts were pointless. The water from the shower hit me by surprise and I flinched at the contact.

I dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. My wrist was throbbing badly and my head hadn't stopped aching since I woke up. There was another knock and I felt my heart speed up in anxiety. I quickly climbed into my bed and threw the covers over me, hoping to stay hidden forever.

"Kayla," my mother said, opening the door. She stepped inside and when I didn't answer, came closer to the bed. I felt her hand on me and I involuntarily flinched away in fright. My mom slowly lifted the duvet. I could feel the worry radiating off of her. "Oh my goodness, Kayla," she said when she saw me. I whimpered in response. She reached for my shoulder but I moved away before she could touch me again.

A heavy silence followed then my mom left the room. I thought she wasn't coming back and felt a surge of relief but she soon returned and closed my bedroom door behind her. She sat.

"Have you showered?"

I was surprised at her question but nodded.

"Good," was all she said then began to treat the wound below my eye. She stopped when I moved and my wrist came into view. Taking it gently in her hands, she slowly wrapped it in a bandage. I tried not to pull away. Just the thought of being touched made my skin crawl. "This will need to be checked out," was all she informed me. She cleaned my other wounds and when I showed her the back of my head, she simply wrapped a single bandage around it and let me lie back down.

"Don't you have questions?" I croaked out. She handed me a glass of water. I drank it slowly.

"I do. But they will be answered when you decide to tell me about it."

I handed her the glass. I felt tears pricking at her gentleness. I felt like a skeleton again. Fragile. Empty. Like everything was stripped from me in a matter of minutes.

"I want you to sit in the lounge while I change your bedding. Then I can make you breakfast if you're hungry."

I shook my head. "I could never eat. Not after..."

"It's okay. It's over now."

Somehow I knew my mom understood what had happened. Though she didn't know the details, I wasn't about to reveal those to her and relive last night. I simply moved to the lounge, feeling so much better now that I was away from that room. I sat on the couch and tried to normalise the morning. Today was a Monday. My dad was at work and I should've been at school. But being home from Hillford only emphasised the fact that something was wrong. Just when everything was right a day before.

My mom made me scrambled egg anyway and I managed two spoons before I had an urge to puke. Later, she suggested we go to the doctor and as much as I wanted to refuse, I didn't have any energy left in me. Before we left, she helped me cover my bruises with makeup and gave me a jersey to cover my bandaged wrist. I was never more grateful for anything else in my life.

We sat in the waiting room for what felt like years. A clock ticked loudly, receptionists' fingernails clicked on their keyboards, babies cried. Time passed too slowly for my head to handle. Across the room, someone dropped a glass and before I could register what was happening, my mind took me back.

"I can't take it anymore. You and your, your pathetic-ness. You have everyone fooled, even your own mother."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, nerves building up inside of me. The overpowering smell of alcohol filled the room, suffocating me silently. I'd never encountered him in this state before and it frightened me, to say the least. He grabbed my wrist and tightened his fingers, pulling at the skin with his fingernails. I exhaled in pain.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he seethed into my face and I struggled to move away from his hold.

"You're hurting me," I tried but he only gripped tighter.

"And you've been hurting me since you went and downed your lonely ass self in pills." I gasped as he threw me against the wall and threw down his glass bottle, fire exploding in my head. Glass shattered everywhere, cutting my bare feet and legs. I shut my eyes in pain and tried to control my breathing but I couldn't when he was so close to me. "The least you could do is give me what I want, Kayla."

My blood ran cold as his hot angry breath hit my face. I shouted at him to let me go, to stop, that he wasn't thinking straight. Hot tears spilled and I battled to stay standing on my shaking limbs. Then his mouth smashed against mine and the clothes were ripped from my body.

"Kayla." I wiped tears from my cheeks that I didn't realise were seeping out.

"Please don't say my name."

"The doctor is ready for us."

I wasn't ready for the doctor. But I went inside anyway.

"Chloe called."

"I don't want to see anyone today, Mom."

I returned to my bathroom and took my third shower of the day. I couldn't get over the feeling of being contaminated, ruined, impure. I'd stayed inside my room the whole day. My mom had cleaned it without asking but I honestly didn't care.

"Do you need bandages?" my mom asked from behind my locked door.

"No, thanks."

"Tea?"

"No."

"Food?"

"Just leave me alone, Mom."

"But-"

"No!" I shouted, throwing the glass I was holding at my door. I shuddered in surprise as the sound of glass breaking echoed through my room. Then I threw another object. I resisted the triggered flashbacks but failed. I threw more objects, confusing the past with the present, caught up in my pain. There was too much still caught up inside. Satisfaction flooded me as I heard the cracking of objects, but so did fear and anxiety. I continued.

"Kayla-"

"No! Okay? You can't help me with anything! Not now, not ever. It'll never be alright. It won't. I hate him!" I shouted, filled up to the brim. I was surrounded by glass and plastic and splinters of wood that were digging into my skin. "I hate him, Mom. I hate him! I hate him, I hate him!" I picked up another object, a book, and put all my energy into the throw. It was probably the worst habit I had, but I didn't care. Until my wrist hit my wall as I lifted my arm to throw. I cried out in pain and slid down to the ground. My head was spinning violently and I clutched my injured wrist that the doctor had bandaged so well.

"I hate him. I hate him so much," I whispered to myself. "And I hate myself for ever falling for him."