My eyes awaken to a new day. One that, no doubt, will be riddled with the same problems yesterday had. And the day before, and so on since this curse first descended upon me. This annoying parasite has been strangling me for too long. It amounts to four months if I'm counting days (I've got an entire calendar dedicated to him). It's also had quite a negative effect on me. Like a can of expired pickles, my body shows signs of wear and tear.

            Whether it be the dark orbiting bags underneath my eyes, the patches of obscene cellulite clenching my legs (guys seem to take a liking to fatter thighs, so I'm in no hurry to go on an extravagant diet), the sluggish nature of binge-drinking cans of cold soda, or constructively finding ways why I shouldn't shower every day or do my usual skincare routine, I'm slowly confiding in the dark side. I'm turning into Darth Vader while yelling, with fists clutched: "Screw the Senate!"

            Just my lucky month. I'll transform into the Wicked Witch of the West if God doesn't perform a miracle soon. Nothing more than an old prune destined for hospice. That's not my plan for an intergalactic future.

            Groggily, I hunch forward and make my way to my dresser. My back hurts, my stomach grumbles, and I'm disgustingly bloated. But, like any other typical 19-year-old in America, I have to finish my last few weeks of high school. Consequently, I'm not required to (look up the statistics; you'll understand how normal it is to be a dropout), though it does pave the way for higher-paying jobs. I like money, so school is essential.

            "Violet! Time for breakfast!"

            I roll my eyes in disgust. Noah, seriously, leave your tired sister alone. I'm ashamed of my appearance. It's painful to move, painful to breathe, go to HELL. I refuse to answer to the one stain on my record, the one blemish on an otherwise perfect track record. Freak! You ruined my life. I hate you with all my heart. For every memory, every smile, each hug, none of it mattered to that ungrateful brat. He scolded me in front of our parents. They held him high as if he'd won the Heisman. Shouting, "This is for your protection," while subsequently thanking him for snitching.

            Never again would I put my trust, my deep secrets, with a fraud. I learned my lesson.

            "Violet! Get your lazy butt downstairs. Mom wants to talk to you!" He lectures from the kitchen. His voice cuts into my nerves, plucking another staple from my heart. Plinck, plinck. When he's fast asleep in bed, I'll settle the score. Either switch his alarm clock or smother him in a bucket of ice-cold water. Revenge is a sister's natural-born job.

            Bounding down the stairs, I round the corner and step into the kitchen. Noah (with a scowl creeping up his face) and my mother stand ready and willing to lecture. I grab a clean plate from the cupboard, lazily letting the door slam. Bam! "If you're gonna say anything," I smack my lips, savoring the flavor of the homemade biscuits, "Then spill the beans."

            "Sit," my mother says, drier than cardboard. "We have a couple of issues to discuss." She looks at my brother like he needs to leave. Uttering words of disgust, he throws on his backpack, grabs his lunch bag, and speeds out the front door.

            The house was barren and lifeless– Except for us two women. In this instance, having an empty house was preferred over sharing a lonely home with my main antagonist: my mother.

            "Hey, just saying, I did nothing wrong," I murmur, hoping it would save me. But the narrow mind of my mom begs to differ. She's gawking at me, with hands folded in her lap like this is a teacher's conference. "I have to get to school, you know."

            "Precisely the reason you're here," she shakes her head, tilting it fifty degrees forward. "Your attitude has been all over the place lately."

            I shrug, "I'm an adult; these things happen."

            "Being stubborn is wonderful and a sure sign of level-headedness, but challenging your dad and I has to stop." She brings her eyes level with mine. "Violet, we love you. Please tell me what's going on." She bears an expression of a typical mother: genuine confusion. She wants to help, but only if it benefits her.

            I'm not falling for this trap; it's a passive-aggressive plan to ease me into confessing. What? No damn clue, but I'm certainly not willing to wait. Patience has never been one of my virtues. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Can I leave? Erika's expecting me–"

            "Enough with the bull crap, Violet! What's wrong with you? You don't eat with us, you spend the day behind closed doors, we hardly see you anymore." Mom sighs seemingly at me, but with her, anything's possible. She's staring at the swirling pattern of the wine-colored carpet. "You get up at absurd hours of the night; don't deny it, you're the one plowing through our snack stash."

            Way to make your daughter feel gross. I'm not a maniac; I'm stress-eating, but lucky me, none of you understand the magnitude of my situation. If they did, I'd be visiting a doctor or a psychiatrist. But no, they assume I've gained weight (which isn't incorrect per se), and putting me on an ambitious diet will fix my problems.

            As I stare my mother straight in the eye, I resist the urge to point my finger at her and call her a hypocrite. She tells me to do this and that while doing worse things behind our backs. That's the definition of your average low-standard parenting. Set rules for kids and none for adults. "I'm not denying it." I press my thumbs against the hardwood table, scooting my plate toward the center. Whatever hunger I'd accumulated, it's all but disappeared. This young woman won't be eating today. "But, from my point of view, you're saying I'm fat?"

            My mom's face flushed red, "No, honey, not fat."

            Another one of her responses that beat around the bush. Great work, traitor. "Then what? I can see you writhing at the sight of your fat daughter." I snicker when she drops her gaze from me to the ground. "Talk about my self-confidence bottoming out."

            "Wasn't my intention. Besides, I didn't expect to focus solely on this topic!" She bites her lip, rubbing her forehead. "Violet, be reasonable."

            "Says the hag calling me a fatty." I throw up my arms, defeated. "I'm over it, anyway, I'm over you. Now, am I excused to go further my education?"

            She goes silent, eyes becoming depressed and hollow. "I called the school to let them know you were sick. I-I thought we could spend it together." Mom smiles awkwardly, stretching across the table to grasp my hand.

            "Stop treating me like I'm a child," I wildly swing, missing worse than anticipated. I nearly make a fool of myself, but instead of falling, I hang off the edge vividly. I'm halfway to the floor and halfway standing. "Hard pass," I use what's left of my adrenaline to force myself upright. "Mothers don't make excuses to hang out with their children; we both know I'd rather be anywhere than in this house." A pang of nausea struck me on the head, and I squinted. A trickle of pain starts on one side of my brain before quickly spreading to the opposite. I wanted to vomit and cry. "I'm going to bed then." I hurry for the medicine cabinets in the bathroom to the left.

            "Are you okay?"

            I flip around faster than a speeding bullet. "Migraine." I barely finish the word before throwing up all over the silver toilet seat. I hunch over, my hands gripping the sides, my heart pounding in my skull. Like a brilliant tap dancer, it beats in my brain– reducing it to mush. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and before my mother can hold my hair back, I kick the door closed. "I'm fine," I blurt out to whoever's listening (my mom). Of course, I'm lying through my damn teeth. It's like death is hoisting a parade in my body.

           Screw nature, screw me.

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            "Feeling better, sleeping beauty?" The monster stationed so proactively under my bed says, doing no foul business. The soothing tone it spoke in brought a smile. Before long, I squeezed my cheeks, eager to stop the sharp sting from making the same exasperated expression for too long.

            My eyes remain feverishly closed; I can't risk the headache intensifying. "Slightly, thanks," I respond flatly. "Can I ask you something outright?"

            "Depends on what it is," he muses, chuckling warmly. "Go on, spit, spit."

            A wave of nausea shoves itself inside my throat, ready to party. While I meagerly retreat further into the duvet, everything gets colder. I shiver from head to toe and ball myself up to solve the problem. Nope, the pain is picking up steam. My sickness is getting worse, or this is all a brilliantly timed placebo. (Nervousness is an ungodly placebo. Without warning, it can negatively impact your health. Yes, I paid attention in class.) I pop my head into the exposed air, "Are you hungry?"

            "Depends on what you mean by the word hunger."

            This parasite is anxiety-inducing and irritating. I talk slowly, doing everything to help the headache fizzle out. "Ever had your stomach grumble? I'm speaking on behalf of that." I squirm in bed, uncomfortable and sweaty. "This woman could use a midnight snack."

            "Funny thing is," The shuffling of feet hints at him moving about. Feet scrape against the ground like a bad dream. "It's not midnight; it's 10:30 p.m., so nowhere near."

            "I don't CARE about specifics! God, you're so annoying!" I whine, slapping myself over and over with a silk pillow. "Do you wanna walk to the convenience store and buy food with me?"

            "Is there a problem with what's here?"

            "My parents are on high alert, so if I eat from the pantry, that'll prove them right." I open an eyelid for the first time since the Stone Age (not literally). "It's sooo dark." Unwrapping the covers, I sit perfectly frozen until my body heat has evenly distributed itself. "Show yourself, dummy. Or I'll keep rambling off names."

            More rustling. Staggered breaths, the clearing of one's throat. The dynamic only a complex being could understand. "You sure enjoy seeing me, Violet, but I humbly refuse to date those under 300 years old." He bows, hair falling in clumps around curved ears. Like a naturally trained seducer, he almost made me drool.

             I, using my quick wit, laugh into the brooding darkness. "What makes you think I'd fall for a blood-sucking parasite like you?" I relax my body again, placing my hands atop my belly. "You think I like you?" Oh, this is rich. "I'm attracted to humans, not parasites."

            "If pigs can fly, then a human morsel can fall for a gorgeous demi-creature." He sits on the far edge of my bed, his weight sinking into the cushion. I tilt forward, my favorite pillow sliding from under the protection of my head.

            "Human morsel? Like food? Are you saying I'm food?" I question, squinting in the darkness; an atrocious mound of blue stands in my vision. Damn, talk about a need for glasses. "Can you pull the light switch?"

            He breathes hard, "Light sensitivity, remember?"

            I don't remember what 2+2 is sometimes; what makes him think I can pull memory out of my butt? I'm no voodoo wizard, like die in a fire, pal. I CHOSE to be reclusive based on one reality: I couldn't properly deal with people. "Oh, sorry," I grunt, barely caring. I quickly switch the subject to more pressing developments. "So, you in?"

            "How far? It's been forever since I stepped out of your house." The parasite chuckles to itself. "Exploration isn't my middle name."

            "Uh," I thought for a second. "How long specifically?"

            "Since I first inhabited space in your musty bedroom, so, six months?"

            Nasty. I want to grab my pocket knife and demonstrate its power. If you think of the slasher movie revolution in the late 90's, you'll get my motive. I constantly spray Febreze and have the pods as well. Not to mention deodorant. I have all the essential needs every growing young woman must have to stand resilient in this world. Feminist powers, I reckon. (Sometimes, on my most challenging days, I wonder what it means to be a feminist. If it means fighting for female rights, I'm failing. I would much rather do something to act girly than buzz my hair and call myself a revolutionist.)

            My first inclination is to transform into Violet the Terrible and rewire this idiot's brain. But I'm far better than that, so I settle on a gentle debate. "Nothing about my room is musty, bastard!" Ahem, maybe I wasn't too forgiving. "It's clean, I'm clean, what's not to love?!" My words flew out of my mouth and became a slur. I'm waving around my hands like a lunatic, and if someone passes by my window (it's always open, don't question me), they'll probably make a run for the Himalayas. Screaming: "She's insane, she's insane!"

            "Alright, alright, calm your sinus infection." He coos, plugging his ears, "You're more annoying than a baby."

           I plateau; there's only so mad a person can get. I've reached that limit, the apex. I'm so impressed with him that I hold back my giggles. Honestly, it feels good to have someone to talk with. Regardless if they're human or not. "You're funny," I hum, bringing up my knees (even though I'm sliding). "Convenience store or not?"

            "You've been through a lot today, sure."

             Air high-fiving myself, I spin to face my wardrobe. I chose to go casual as exposing my skin wouldn't be my best move. Tired and weary don't mix flawlessly with unmanicured fingers and sleep lines. Throwing on a 3x hoodie, I decide against putting on shorts; my PJs are fine. "Yeah, basically a martyr."

            "Nowhere close," he calls, waiting for me by the raised window. He's sitting on the windowsill, glancing at his fingernails like a female model. "Don't give yourself that much credit. Or sympathy." He slides halfway out, shimmying his stomach under the tight space elegantly.

            Wow, will I fit? Popular to contrary belief, the only times when I could slip in and out undetected were my Freshman year of high school and when my friend and I were trying a low-calorie diet Junior year. I nearly collapsed on the bed in fright. All lights were on me, and I was supposed to display my physical prowess. I had none. Fine, I admit defeat. My abdomen isn't what it used to be! "Uh, I never knew the moon looked so beautiful tonight; how about we sit and watch it?" I fiddle anxiously with my thumbs, twirling them round and round.

            Like a bird coming back for dinner, he pokes his head in, giving me the most you-serious-right-now face. "Violet, hurry the hell up." His hands pat the raised lip, going limp. "I'm pretty excited to be outside. I have no intention of coming in until after we've run errands."

            "The gap is so damn tiny!" I complain, pushing my tongue between my front teeth. My legs tremble, my mouth runs dry, and I know I'm about to be crudely humiliated or relieved. Embarrassed, I blush bright pink. Crap, this is bad with a capital B. "Have you seen me? I'm no Victoria's Secret billboard advertisement." My airways tighten, and I bumble like a fool. "I've got a bit more curves than them..." It's weird hearing myself say something stomach-clenching.

            "If you don't fit, I'll manually force it higher." He snickers, his eyes wandering about meticulously. "But... that would be entertaining." Whatever respect for him I had was cut into ribbons at that moment.

            "Screw off! Control yourself, cold-blooded murderer," I grumble, testing the security of the poll holding my creaky window open. I swear if the paint chips and messes up my hair or clothes, I'm throwing punches. Beware, brother nature, you've never felt the unrestrained might of a hurricane. I will crush you. That, I promise. "Alright, just be there in case I need help. It's a five-foot drop-off." Hesitantly, I place one hand on the outside panel. As straightforward as possible, I swing my body through, head-first.

            Or so I thought. "Good Lord," he covers his mouth, gazing at the full moon. It snickered down at me. I imagined its eyes closed as it didn't want to gawk at a sad sight. "The impossible is possible."

            "Thanks," I whisper, unknown even to me what tone I spoke. The blush was back, angrier than before. "Give me a hand." I caught my beloved Brewers hoodie on a nail.

            My chest had decided to deviate from willful cooperation, and I could feel the mismatched, jagged wood squishing my breasts as well as suffocating me. I was stuck, gosh, I was stuck.