The dream was always the same. I would run, they would scream. Then the same excruciating pain as that God forsaken day would pull me from the hellish memory and back to my lonely bed. My body would be shaking; my heart beat frantic; a cold sweat covering my clammy skin. And then I would curl up and pull at my hair, my mind racing with all the memories I couldn’t allow myself to forget.
This time was no different.
With a shuddering, heart wrenching, breath I looked around my dimly lit room; my eyes darting nervously over the eerie shapes the shadows would cast.
It was just the dream.
The digital alarm on the cluttered bedside cabinet blinked slowly ‘7:45am’ and I forced myself to let go of my hair. My hands were still shaking when I pulled myself from my warm bed and padded slowly to the bathroom connected to my room. The tiles were cold on my bare feet and the white light was too bright for my eyes, but the minute I stepped into that warm shower I felt some of the fear leaving my body, the hot water washing away my sweat and allowing me to come back to my senses.
It was Monday. August. This meant my last year of High School started today, senior year. There’s a cheery thought. Senior year was supposed to be the best, I remember talking about all the things we would do with my friends. The party’s, the boys, the fun.
None of that was going to happen now. I don’t even have the friends’ part down. They all left. Who can blame them after what I done? I can’t. I can’t even blame them for not speaking to me in two years, for pushing past me in the corridors: for acting like I don’t exist.
In fact, no one speaks to me anymore. Not just my so called friends. Once the rumours started it was hard to get anyone to walk past me without giving a wide birth first.
No one but Judy: my Mums carer. She’s the only one that knows my story and doesn’t judge me. She’s the only one who cares now.
And as for my Mum, she isn’t quite ‘Mum’ anymore. She can’t even look at me without breaking down and having to be restrained. PTSD they call it, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And it’s my fault she has it.
My fault.
Turning off the shower I stood for a moment in the silence, my head slightly bowed as the water dropped to my feet. My eyes closed and I fought back the urge to scream, everything just welling up inside my like a balloon. I was ready to burst. I don’t know how much longer I could keep this all inside. All the regret…The anger…
Somehow, I dragged myself from the shower and made myself get dressed. Nothing fancy, just a grey t-shirt, hoodie and some black jeans. Then when I was dressed I brushed my teeth and slicked my hair back into a tight French braid.
When I looked into the mirror, to check the French braid, I had to stop myself from wincing at the hollow expression of the girl staring back at me. Her drying blonde hair looked dull and lifeless, her cheeks way too thin and her green eyes having none of the sparkle they once did.
This was me now, no point crying over it.
With a last minute dash around my room I collected my bag and textbooks before slipping on a pair of black converse and making my way down the stairs. Judy was already in the kitchen, her back to me as she worked over the stove.
Judy was a short frumpy sort of woman; she had that ‘motherly’ feel about her. One of those personalities that made you want to hug her and tell her all of your darkest secrets until it was past dawn.
“Hey,” I said quietly as I opened the fridge and took out an apple.
She turned quickly to flash me a quick grin before she looked back down at the stove.
YOU ARE READING
Discovering a Melody
Teen FictionFear. Everyone has one. The one thing that gives you sweaty palms and a deadly sense of reality. For Melody Harper her fear haunts her every moment, her cowardice shattering her life. And one night was all it took for the final pieces of her life t...
