(Don't) Leave Me Alone •twenty one pilots-Tyler Joseph•

seventeen//take the fight from the kid

||Charlotte Robin Dun|| First Person||

I act like there's nothing wrong.
I act like there's nothing wrong with this morning as I follow my normal routine of lying in bed for an hour because I just can't get up until I hear my mom from across the hall yelling for me and Josh to wake up.

I always did it- pretending that the sky didn't feel like it was caving in on me and crushing my soul. It was the closest thing to comfort that I had those few times that Ryan couldn't be there for me, because in reality, Ryan wasn't always available for me to annoy. And it's ridiculous, to be dead honest- it's ridiculous how I always seem to sell myself as some sort of self sufficient person when in reality, the moment that I lose my crutch, I can't stand on my own. So I find myself faking it time and time again, but sometimes, when you're so broken, it isn't the easiest thing to do. It's almost like everyone can just tell when you're acting a fraud.

Which is why I'm leaving for California today.

The one time that it mattered- the one time that fearless Robin Dun was needed, I couldn't pull it off. I couldn't pretend that I didn't feel like the world was against me and I couldn't pretend that I wasn't torn up because my best friend was killed right in front of me and died in my arms. I couldn't pretend that I didn't have Ryan's blood covering my entire being and I sure as hell couldn't pretend that I was okay with that. The one instance that I needed to be strong was when I couldn't be, but they can't let me have that, can they? All the times when I acted like I couldn't give two f.ucks about the world, I didn't exist to them, but when everything shatters along with my act, I suddenly need help. They beg for me to show emotion and feel something, but when I do, they back away. They back away because they're all just a bunch of cowards that like to pretend that they care when they really don't.

So I guess it's my fault that this is happening to me, and sure, starting now probably won't change anything, but I could try. I could cover up the pain and only seethe raw anger, because that's all that I feel. The sorrow has dwindled into the burning embers of distaste for everything- for the world, for my family, for my mother. Because God knows that she can't handle me mourning the murder of the only one that cared for me. It's always been like that with her, because I'm the middle child. Me and Jordan, at least. But Mom loves Jordan- she pays attention to him and Ashley and Abigail. And Josh, how the fuc.k could I ever forget Josh? Because he's the kid that amounted to something. Because Josh Dun was the one she had no faith in before he started to earn a bit of money for hitting something in time to music, because he's the famous one. Which is fine to me, because I love Josh. But it never has worked in my favour. She hasn't ever had the reason to be proud of her daughter, especially when I got into things that were pointless to her and her old fashioned ways. My art is pointless- in her eyes, it's nothing but specially placed graphite lines on paper that anyone who could hold a pencil can do. And that's why I try so hard to do better, that's why I strived to be better than average so not just anyone could be better than me. And that disappointed her, sure, but she was even more livid when I made friends with Nick and Valerie. 'No good druggies' she would exclaim on one of her daily rants to me about how messed up my life is. And I'd like to think- I'd like to pretend that she's coming from a place of caring and complete love for me, but that's just wishful thinking.

I'm a lot of things. I'm a whole lot of things that involve a crap ton of negative connotations, but naïve is not one of them.

I let out an exaggerated sigh as I drag the eyeliner pen tip slowly across my eyelid, angling the pen to make a swift wing. My lips part slightly as I focus on thickening the thin line to the same amount as my other eye, and when I'm satisfied, I cap the pen and put it back in my carry on. I take a step back and stare at myself, hoping that I looked the part of rebellious teen enough. Black skinny jeans, grey hoodie, leather jacket, and burgundy Vans. I packed a similar colour scheme in my suitcase for the amount of time that will be spent at the treatment centre, which is going to be a nice 75 days which is 15 days less than the full program, but it's expensive and my mom can't have me miss my own birthday. God forbid that.