TRANSLUCENT

001.

I walked inside my room to shut out the day. The constant reminders of things I toiled to forget.

On happy days, I visit her.
Days when I'm stronger, numb.
Days when I can treat her like I'm an outsider, a bystander.

I smile politely, attempting to hack away the fog of awkwardness wafting between us. She smiles back, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

I clear my throat.

"You come visit me less and less," she says finally.

She knows.

I smile. "Oh, I've been preoccupied. School, hobbies, friends and whatnot."

She snorts. "You should visit more often."

My voice breaks. "I don't like coming here."

"Don't kid yourself. You can fool them," she waves a hand, indicating everyone in my life. "But you can't fool me. I know more about you than you do."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" I reply lightly.

She locks eyes on mine. "Than answer this: why do you paint the way you do? Write the way you do? Speak the way you do?"
Looking pleased with herself, she leans back into her chair and folds her arms.

I laugh like she's a ridiculous child. "Oh, those old things? You should know that I channel emotion in my work. Just finding whatever's strongest and use it as motivation."

"Right."
She knows I'm lying.

"How was your day?" she asks me.

I look away and inhale. "Fine. Boring."

"Was it? Was it boring?"

"Yes," I snap.

She raises an eyebrow and stares.
"That's not what I recall."

"I don't care what you recall. You weren't there anyway."

"I was too. All along."

"Then why bother asking me?!" I stand to scream at her. My composure returns immediately and I sit back down, my face hot.

"Now isn't the time to be immature and hysterical. Now's the time for you to be reflecting and apologizing."

"I tried that already. You know that Mom caught on. Made me throw my apologies away," I pause, glancing at her.
She looks so serene, composed, maybe even pretty.
An unnerving soft voice, reminding me the worst truths.

Her eyes, sharp, never missed anything.
Right now, she looks sympathetic. Sardonic, but sympathetic all the same.

"You can't tell her."

"What's there to tell anyway? She'll just tell me what's been repeated time after time."

"So... What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"You know."

I do know.

"I hate you."

"You shouldn't. Who else would tell you the truth? It's what you wanted. Now you're getting it, and you're overreacting. Hope you realize how cliche this situation is."

"I know."

She smiled. "Yeah, you do know. Now you know. Thanks to me."

- - - -

"Are you sick?"
No.
"Are you tired?"
No.
"Are you mad at me?"
For crying out loud, no.

"Are you alright?"
Sure, I'm great.
"You'd tell me if there was something up, right?"
Oh sure.

"Why are you acting like this?"
Hey, look, you noticed.

- - -

"Every day. They do this every day."

She pats my shoulder, her touch stings rather than comforts me.
"How could they understand, anyway?"

"They couldn't. Only I can."

"They think I'm shallow. Petty. Bad attitude."

She laughs, a mirthless sound. "Of course you are."

"Maybe they think that I'm just trouble. I try, but I always fall short."

"Always," she agrees.

"I almost took my life the other day."

"I was there."

"Shut up and listen, would you??"

She looks at me, waiting, tapping her foot in boredom against the cold floor.

"I had to visit my family. I convinced them I had a headache. Broke down and cried in front of them, and I said I was stressed with a bad headache. And they bought it."

She stares, still tapping.
I continue.

"I went in my room and sat there, crying because I messed up everything. What even do I have anymore?"

She leans forward, eyes locked on mine, her empty, translucent eyes that pierce the depths of my thoughts.
She knows everything.

"I know this already. I know what comes next. Then you left your phone on the bed, went in the bathroom and stood there like an idiot. Staring at the razors, the scissors, the cleaning supplies, your over the counter medication. You know how to do everything. But you didn't. Too scared of what people will think if you?"

"You're wrong," I reply, my voice brittle. "I decided to write goodbyes first. To explain myself. I'm too good at hiding, you know?"

"Then you got a text message. If you hadn't have gotten that, you might not be sitting there."

"One day I won't be sitting here, facing you."
I'll be sitting with her, with translucent eyes of my own.
Torturing someone else's pathetic mind.
A tear slides out.

"Shut up. Everyone dies. I died. Who cares."

"I want to die some days. And other days I feel confused. Sometimes I am happy."

"You think you're happy. It goes away."

I nod. She's right. It does.

"You're a poor excuse for a confident girl," she snorts. "On the inside, you're as insecure as any one else. It's repulsive and boring. No wonder you have no friends."

"I have friends."

"You have people who like you. Sometimes, they like you. Are they friends?"

"Yes. They are."

She laughs, this time so hard that tears corner her eyes. She wipes them and catches her breath.

"How long has it even been since you spoke with them?? They aren't your friends. My god, you're so gullible to think they are."

I swallow. "I have one. Maybe two."

She wipes her eyes. "Fair weather friends. I'm your only friend who is always around."

"That's... That's a lie."
I'm caving. My confidence is slowly evaporating.

"Then where are they? Where are they right now?"

"It doesn't matter. Even if they were here, I'd convince them I was okay."