(Seraphina)

Once I get home, I sob into my pillow. Why am I crying? Charlotte wasn't even a friend; she just sat at the same table as me. Besides, she has the H's now. She doesn't need me. Emily was a true friend: always there to help me, kind, sweet, ready to stick up for me. I have to get her something for Christmas coming up.

A friendship necklace? Charlotte seems like the type of girl who would wear a friendship necklace, not Emily. Jewelry is out of the question. A CD? She loves musicals and standard music, same as me. I'll have to see what musical CDs that she doesn't have. If I have enough money, I'll see if I can get her a CD.

All thoughts of Christmas leave my head as I realize that I'll have to get something for my parents. Despite all that they put me through, I still care about me. Can I harden myself beyond caring about them? Can I shut myself off, keep my distance? I'm already not talking to them.

I get off of my bed and search through one of my drawers for a small switchblade. Rolling up my jacket sleeve, I make a small self-harm scar. I do this two more times, and I wash the blade as best as I could in my private bathroom.

The walls are painted a light pink with white tiles. I placed a gray rug over the floor, and the sink is clean. There's a white shower curtain with a decorative tree curtain in front of it. Makes the bathroom look nice. A black tower hangs on the towel rack from my shower this morning, and a white robe that my father gave me when I was thirteen hangs on the back of the bathroom door. I wash my scars and wrap them in a bandage.

Is self-harming going to become a habit, too? Like riding the exercise bike, I'll have to break this habit as soon as possible. People say that self-harming is a form of asking for help. What are these tiny scars? A small scream that no one can hear? A whimper?

Blasting Dear Evan Hansen through my Bluetooth, I shut my eyes and try to imagine myself in a world different than my reality. It doesn't work; I'm stuck in this world until I die. I put a pillow on top of my face and scream. It's enough to block out the voices in my head, telling me that I'm fat, petty, any insult that you can think of off the top of your head.

When I get called downstairs for dinner, I smell baked chicken when I walk into the dining room. My father was home, and he made dinner. I set the table without so much as a "thank you" from either of my parents. Sitting down at my designated spot, my mother sits at the right end of the table, and my father sits at the left end of the table.

Baked chicken with cheese and sauce, spinach, and macaroni and cheese for dinner. This meal used to be one of my favorite dishes when I was in middle school. After my parents told me to stop talking as much as I usually did, I got rid of a lot of foods that I enjoyed very much.

~•~

"Sera, dinner!" I heard my mother call. I finished my homework and paused my music. I was listening to Halsey and Melanie Martinez to help me concentrate. I walked downstairs and sat down after setting the table. We started to eat the dinner my father made, and I was silent.

"For the love of God, say something!" my father tells me. I look up at him. I had barely finished eating the spinach on my plate when he got fed up with my silence. Why did he get so mad? He told me to stop talking.

My mother tells him to calm down, and she looks at me. "Sweetie, you can talk to us. You don't have to be scared that we won't listen to you," she says sweetly. Liar. Both of them were liars; they don't care; they won't listen to me; they're selfish.

I look at my plate again and eat my macaroni and cheese. My parents give up, looking at each other worriedly. I can't talk to them. It's hard to try to talk to them. I know that they're just trying their best, but sometimes their best isn't enough. I spent so long not speaking that it seems impossible to break the habit now.

~•~

When I look at my plate, the spinach is gone. I ate while lost in thought. At least that spinach is a vegetable, and it'll help me lose weight. The chicken was next to be consumed. I ate slowly, trying to savor the food. It didn't taste like anything to me; it was like the chicken was bland. Was I so far gone in my fear and pain that everything I eat and drink will taste like nothing?

"Seraphina, your report card came today," my mother tells me. I look at her, not speaking. What's the point of trying to do so?

"You have excellent grades, but the notes that your teachers wrote under 'comments' say that you hardly talk at school. I'll say this once: start talking," my father says sternly.

"James, let me handle this," my mother says, looking at him. He calms down, letting my mother take control of the situation. "Sweetie, we just want you to be more open."

I got blown off by somebody that I used to know. You told me to stop talking. By not talking, my feelings get bottled up inside, where no one can see them. Aren't you proud of me?

"We're very concerned that you won't have many friends, like in middle school," she says. Sure, bring up those painful years of adolescence.

I have one friend, and we care about each other very much. Is that you want to hear or is that not enough?

"We just want you to be happy," she says.

Fat chance that I'm ever going to be happy again. I was raped over the summer, friendless for most of my school years, and blown off.

After dinner, I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas before getting into my bed. With classical music playing from one of my music apps, I fall asleep.