I WAKE UP with the urge to cry. Sitting there on my bed, I feel a wave of helplessness crash over me, drowning me in a sea of misery while giving only the hope of a brighter tomorrow as my life jacket. This is not the first time it has happened.

Each time I wake like this, I am confused. I have a wonderful life, don't I? I have a complete family: sure they're a little broken, but anything broken can be fixed. My grades are decent; not below average but stable. I have one close friend: my camera, who understands me like no other. I am perfectly content with my life. Right?

With an inward sigh, I rub the dark patch resting on my forearm, a dark reminder constantly pecking away at the crevices of my mind. My feet fall into their daily pattern of shower, brush teeth, breakfast, ignore parents, check on--

How can I forget?

Suddenly much more awake than a few minutes before, I nearly sprint to my door. My pajama pants swish against my legs in a flurry of motion as I whip open the door to reveal--

"Whoa, there tiger. What's with the hurry?" asks my father, standing in his pajama shorts and baggy grey shirt. I blink at him, mentally begging him to move out of the way. My photos are dry, I long to say. Dad, please move! But I don't.

I don't wish to waste my breath on a sentence such as that.

He waits for a response, but when it becomes obvious I will not speak, he lets out a sigh. Moving off to one side, he gestures for me to go. And I go.

I pass by my mother on the staircase. She does not acknowledge my presence. I do not mind one bit. She understands that I do not wish to talk, unlike my father who tries to get me to speak on a daily basis. As if I were a child learning how to walk.

Skidding a little as I jump a few steps to the ground, I make my way to the familiar door -- with its rusting hinges and yellowing exterior -- and open it slightly, so the light wouldn't filter in.

Breathing a contented sigh, my eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the blackness. I expertly make my way to where I knew the string would be hanging, and I unclasp yesterday's snapshots. Placing them on the table beside me, I clip the undried photos up. I will take them down after school.

As I collect my scattered prints into my arms, I feel a shock run through me as I imagine seeing what images came through. I stay there for what seems likes a mere few seconds. I exit the room with a small smile on my face.

"Eleanor, breakfast is on the table," My mother yells. I walk into the kitchen distractedly, glancing at each photo I lift to my face.

"No photography at the table, Eleanor. You know the rules," says my father, adjusting his glasses while not lifting his attention away from his newspaper. He is seated in his favorite love seat, now dressed in graying brown hair, work suit, and all.

My mother snatches my photos out of my hands as I let out a disgruntled sound of protest. She shakes her head and sets them on the kitchen counter. Strands of fiery red hair escapes her messy bun, falling into her heart shaped face. Her amber eyes seek mine and I see the hidden demand, talk and you can have them back.

I do not say anything at all.

Wordlessly, I eye my photography with a longing expression before taking a seat at the the table. My mother and father join me moments later. We eat in contradicting silence; uneasy for them, yet a comfortable one for me.

——

Just a heads up. Chapters in this story will be extremely short. I won't usually go past three pages. Thank you to all new and old readers for supporting me with all my stories. c:

—Isabelle