———

I'm in my room. The door is locked from the inside. It locks from the outside too, which is a bit scary but it's that way with all the doors in the house. I'm glad that I'm alone right now. It means that I don't have to pretend. I don't have to put on a mask and pretend to be happy in front of everyone else. That's a huge burden lifted from my shoulders, though the heavy weight of sadness is still there, it's always there, and I don't know what to do with it.

Being alone most of the time would kill me even more, and I'm very genuinely glad that I have plenty of company, but having some time to be alone is welcome.

So I lie in my bed. I lie in my soft bed, under my soft blankets, and I cry. I look up at the ceiling and I let my tears fall freely. Why I'm crying I have no idea. I have no idea why I'm crying but I'm crying anyways. And I do know why I'm crying.

I know that it's because it's all wrong, it's all so terribly wrong. Everything is wrong. My life is wrong. Who I am as a person is wrong. It's all twisted, it's all corrupt, it's dark and thorny and it's not right. The thorns of everything I am inside are piercing my flesh, piercing my organs, piercing my capillaries until my entire body is bleeding, my mind is bleeding, my heart is bleeding, my soul is bleeding.

I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding. Everything inside me is bleeding. And everything I am is bleeding. My existence is slipping through my fingers. I am slipping through my fingers. I am losing more and more of myself. I am leaving myself until there is nothing of me left. But I'm here, I'm here, I'm irrevocably here at the same time. And I can't escape, I can't escape, I can't escape.

I am no-one. I am nothing. I am less than no-one. I am less than nothing. And I cannot ever be anything because everything I am is twisted. Everything I am is nothing. Is less than nothing. Everything I am is wrong and everything about me is wrong and it's so wrong and it's so wrong and it's all wrong and my whole life is so wrong.

I don't know why I feel like my life is wrong. But I know it is. There is no reason to think this. There is no reason for me to hate this life that I'm living, no reason to be disturbed by it. But I am disturbed. I am so disturbed. But, my life is fine. I go to school, and the teachers are nice, and the kids are nice. I get decent grades. They're not extremely good but they're pretty good. I have a few people I talk to at lunch time. I go home and my home life is good. My mother is nice. My sisters are nice. They all treat me well. Everyone treats me well. So why do I feel like this?

It must be because I am deeply horrible, I am deeply ungrateful, I am deeply unsalvageable. There are so many people who have it worse than me. There are so many people who have it so, so much worse than me. So why can I not be happy with what I have? Why can I not be grateful for everything? It's all going right. It's all going so very right and yet it's all going wrong. It must be because of me that it all feels so very wrong. It must be because of some fault of my own.

I have so many faults. I have so many flaws. I can't sleep at night, I'm lazy, I'm ungrateful, I can't be happy. I'm not pretty or kind or a good student or outgoing or brave or clever or wise or anything. I'm not athletic, I'm not coordinated, I'm not organized. It's all not enough. Everything I do and everything I am is all not enough. It's all not enough and I'm so inadequate and I'm so wrong.

I'll never be enough. I'll never be enough. No matter what I do, no matter who I be, it's all not going to ever be enough and I'm going to not ever be enough. Because the thing that is wrong with me is intrinsic. It's inherent. It's so deep that it reaches its scarred, infected tendrils down to my very core, through my blood, through my bone marrow. It's so all-reaching that it claws and grasps and wraps around every part of me. Around my throat. Around my eyes. Around my fingers and my toes and my stomach and me knees. It is both invading me and residing with me as if it was meant to be there always. I guess it was meant to be there always.

I guess this is all I am.

I feel poison in every part of me. Poison in my bloodstream, poison rushing through all my veins, all my arteries, all my venules, all my arterioles, all my capillaries. The poison is flowing through me as if it is blood. It is plunging inside me and entering all the space around my cells. All my interstitial fluid is full of dark, corrupted, thick poison. It is entering my cells, and my cytosol is saturated with it. My lymphatic tissue is flowing with poison and my lymph nodes cannot clean it out because there is just so much, just so much, just so much. My cerebral fluid is filled with poison and the poison is surging through my brain. It's surging everywhere.

And the thick, viscous, vicious black fluid is pouring through all the many, many tiny holes and punctures and gaps and tears that are all over my body. That's what it feels like at least. It feels like the thorns of who I am have pierced through all over my body, leaving me torn and ripped and punctured and bleeding. And the poison is seeping through all the holes, is seeping out into the world. It's corroding my skin, it's staining my bedsheets and blankets and pillows, it's leaving inerasable marks that only I can ever see.

If my family knew who I truly was, if they knew what I truly was, then they would be disgusted, I'm sure. They would be disgusted, and shocked, and betrayed, they'd be so betrayed. They spent so much money on me. So much money and time and effort. So much care and consideration. All for me to turn out like this. All for me to turn out like this disgusting, insufferable mess of a human being. I let them down. I let them down. I owe them so, so much and I let them down.

They'd throw me out if they knew how I really felt. If they knew what I truly was. If they knew that the girl they tried to make into their daughter was so ungrateful, was so miserable despite everything that she has, despite everything that's been given to her, then they would definitely throw me out. And they'd have every right in the world to. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve my family and all the care that they have given to me.

I wonder what my biological family is like. I wonder what they would think of me. They probably do not care about me at all. They probably haven't given me a second thought after giving me away. What kind of parents wouldn't make sure that they could be there for their own child? What kinds of parents wouldn't raise their own child?

Of course, it's possible that they had to give me away because they were too mentally ill or too poor or too addicted or whatnot to take care of a child. It could be that they wanted to raise me, they wanted to support me, but they just couldn't. Even if that was the case though, it would still be their own fault. It would still be their own fault for giving me away. Because as my adopted mother said, everybody who is mentally ill or poor or addicted actually, secretly chooses it. So, according to her, my parents could have raised me if they wanted to. And she's right, of course. She's always right.

I hate my parents. But I love them. I love them but I hate them but I want them and I need them, despite the fact that they've let me down so much. And I love my mother, but there is a part of me that cannot trust her. I don't know why I can't trust her. She's been nothing but kind to me during my whole entire life. But something just feels off. I know I shouldn't be feeling like this. I know that there's no reason for me to be feeling like this. But something is off. Something is so very off.

It's probably just me. What's off is probably just me. Just my unending hunger. Just my desire for more, for more, for more than this perfectly happy, healthy, middle class life that I am living. I'm not a good person. I don't abide by the rules and the teachings that my mother is teaching me. I want to. Dear Universe I really, really want to. But I just can't. But I'm just not capable, no matter how hard I try.

Or maybe I am capable, and I'm just not trying hard enough. Perhaps this is all my fault. It probably is. I don't know whether it's worse to not want to be a good person hard enough or whether it's worse to not be capable of being a good person at all. But I know that I must surely be the worse one, whichever one is worst.

I am still crying. I haven't stopped crying. I have no idea how long I've been lying here. I'm supposed to be asleep. I was supposed to have gone to sleep long ago. I've probably been awake here for an hour. I never get enough sleep at night. Not that anybody knows this. But for some strange reason, I am never tired during the days. I must not need that much sleep I guess. But still, night is for sleeping. All the proper people sleep at night. I should be sleeping at night as well.

The house is so quiet. It's eerie. And I'm still crying.

———

"So how was school today?" our mother asks us, from behind the wheel of the eight seat SUV. It's a huge car. Plenty of space for all of us. There's screens on the back of each seat so that the kids in the back can watch movies and play games. But we're not going to do that in the fifteen minute drive to get home from school. The sun is setting behind us. My siblings and I are in the second row. It's idyllic. But I'm still drowning in my hidden misery.

"It was great," Riviera pipes up. She is playing with the end of her strawberry blond braid. Both the sisters have red hair, but my mother is blonde. They must have gotten their genes from the sperm donor. They were both conceived medically, but my mother didn't want to be pregnant again but she wanted a third child. I have raven black hair.

"I got invited to go to a party," Annabella speaks. "It's this Saturday, at Claira's house. Can I go?"

"Of course, my child. What are the rest of you guy's plans for the weekend?"

"I'm going to a movie with my friends," Riviera chimes. "It's the new Shadow Lady movie."

"Oh that should be fun. What are you doing, Zia?"

"I'm just staying home and studying. I'm behind on some homework."

"It's a good idea to study," my mother agrees. "It's how you can develop your mind, so that you can contribute more to society."

"We know, momma, we know." Annabella's voice has a hint of playful frustration in it.

"You girls are all very smart," our mother tells us. "You all have much to give to the world."

"Aww, thanks," I tell her, trying to put as much sincerity into my voice as I can.

"What are you guys learning about?"

"We're learning about batteries," Annabella explains, "and the way that electrons flow through batteries. It's really quite interesting. The metals that lose their electrons become ions and the ions that gain electrons become metals."

"We're learning about how to divide polynomials," Riviera starts. "It's actually pretty easy, but most people in my class find it hard. I don't know why."

"Well, I'm sure it's easy for you. I'm sure it's easy for both of you, is it not?"

"Yeah," Anabella replies, "it was okay last semester when I learned it."

"There is much knowledge and wisdom to be learned in school."

"Yes there is, mother." My voice is smooth and warm. The opposite of how I feel inside.

"Always pay close attention in school," she replies back. "School will teach you many many great wisdoms."

"Of course, mom," Riviera responds. "You see how well I'm doing."

"I do."

"School will help us make that cold hard cash," Anabella chirps.

"Absolutely," my mother agrees, "and that's definitely very important. What's also important though is the fact that school will increase your wisdom and knowledge. It will teach you how the world works. It will teach you why things are the way that they are. It will teach you how things work, how nature works, how the universe works, how people work. It will teach you how to go about your lives in a good and respectable way."

"You're right, mother," I tell her. "School has so many important messages. So many deep and hard-hitting messages."

"Yes, and you girls need to make sure to pay attention so that you can understand these messages and become truly enlightened."

I think about everything that I've learned in school. Math, science, history, grammar, how to analyze literary motifs, statistics. Atoms and neutrons and quarks and positrons. The body and all its failings. They were all interesting, doubtlessly. I have always found school interesting. But still. Still. I always felt like there might be something, something more. I always felt like there had to be something more than all these particles and molecules and metaphors. These had to be something deeper than that.

But I keep these thoughts to myself. I am probably only holding on to fantasy. I am definitely wrong. Of course there isn't anything miraculous and magical about the world. Of course all that we see is all that there is in this life, the only life. I just am stil immature. I'm still a child. I want something indescribable and inexpressible and altogether completely unreasonable. This is how a child thinks. This is what a child wants. I'm fifteen. I need to grow up.

"What is the most interesting thing you guys have learned in school?" Annabella asks.

"Oh, probably that everything is made up of other, smaller things. Nothing is absolute except for space and time."

"Wow, that's very deep," I comment. "It's really almost mystical."

"The real world is more than mystical," Anabella states. "It's better than any magic."

"So it is," I agree. "So it is."

But is it really? I wonder. Is things being made of smaller things being made of smaller things being made of smaller things, until you get down to the waves, the ripples in space time itself, is that really better than magic? It has to be, after all, it's so cool. But despite being cool, there is this hollowness to it. There just, there has to be something more. Despite how cool this is, it's not enough. Except, it is enough. It has to be enough. It's all that there is.

This is making me feel hollow. This entire conversation is making me feel hollow. Yet I swallow down the hollowness. I don't know why it's here. It has no place. It doesn't deserve to be here. This is a perfectly normal conversation between a perfectly normal family. I swallow down the hollowness, and I swallow down my tears, and I try my best to not choke on either of these things. I always try my best, and I always fail. I wish so desperately that I could cry.

I tilt my head slightly to the side, I lean on the cool glass of the car window. The conversation flows on around me, and I weave my way through it as best as I can. I genuinely do love talking to people, including my family. It makes all the hurt hurt just a little bit less. And it makes my life just a little less storm-drenched, a little less shadow-covered. But this topic that we're talking about, dear Universe I hate it.