Beyond the Facade

Chapter One

Thundering rain falls heavily on my skylight windows as I'm curled up like a fetus in my soft, white duvet. Dried up mascara tears streak my face, along with new ones fully formed. It's a Tuesday, and it has been particularly terrible for me emotionally. The depression and anxiety suppressed for daily activities and avoiding those judgy, high school—kind of bitchy—stares usually returns to slither around my shoulders when I am alone for one minute. Not that I complain. I'd rather trudge through the murky waters of self-hate and despair by my lonesome than to subject my closest loved ones to watching my inevitable suffering. See, I'm a seemingly normal seventeen-year-old, with a normal two-story home and normal parents and friends who care. On the inside though, if I'm being completely honest with myself, I'm a fucked up little shit that insists on making things difficult. Why? I'm truly anxious about everything in my life, from what I'm going to wear to school to who my husband will be. If I wish to ignore honestly and straight up lie, I'll just state that I love to plan. It allows me to feel as if I have some amount of control over my hectic life and emotions. Currently, however, I am a surefire mess and I accept it.

I finally make the decision to adjust my position in bed from the window closer to me to facing—my dog. You've got to be joking, I think.

"You seriously have boundary issues", I grumble, ruffling her fur. Giselle is the most loyal silver Siberian Husky I have had the pleasure of forcing into my house, but she is so nosy. I don't want her to witness my breakdown—for the third time today—so I politely and gingerly push her off with my foot and roll out of bed. As soon as my caramel toned, bare size 6 feet connect with my cherry wood floor, I feel unsteady and out of control. Maybe I shouldn't have spent 3 hours lying in bed with no movement, but who cares? Giselle wanders into my personal space once again, but she somehow grabbed my water bottle and sat it in front of me.

"How long have you really been in my room?" I murmured into her face as I gently squeezed her. I banned human companionship during my sadness tirades as well as four-legged ones, but my Husky was stubborn enough not to pay attention. Surprisingly, Giselle's nosiness comforted me. I wasn't completely alone, even if I wished to be on the surface.

Thumping down the winding stairs of the contemporary-style home to our renovated kitchen and flipping on the accent light, I noticed not one family member was home. Only the steady, drumming rain and Giselle accompanied me. Just how it should be, I say to myself. I pad over into the bright white living room and click on the family Samsung flat-screen television. Instantly, I am tortured by the sound an unnaturally busty 20-something fake moaning.

"Unbelievable," I say to Giselle. "How does he never get caught watching this shit?" My brother Andrew is a habitual porn addict, engaging in any type he can get his filthy hands on, three times a day. He's only twelve. I normally choose to mind my business, believing Dad can handle the situation when he arrives home from work. This time, however, I save Dad the trouble, block the channel, and use the Direct TV guide to turn to the Food Network channel right when the family V-Tech home phone rings. I pluck it off the receiver and scan the caller ID: Andrew. How hilarious. While the phone continues to shrill, I calmly glide into the now lit kitchen and pull out groceries needed for a grilled cheese sandwich and bump the refrigerator doors closed. I pause and notice lines of Polaroids from my road trips, organized by destination. Mom's doing, I conclude. One single print catches my attention, one of me and my former best friend Katya in Manhattan, New York. It was captured before my looming anxiety held my mind hostage a year back. Kat—as I nicknamed her—attempted to pull me from my hermit-like seclusion, but instead of accepting her help, I virtually shoved her away. In turn, Kat gave me what I plead for, as well as ceasing contact with me altogether. A single tear drips slowly from my cheek as I toss my chosen ingredients back into the humming refrigerator and spin slowly toward the winding staircase. My energy is now depleted back into submission. 

 Tucked in the safety of my mostly white room, I'm rocking in front of my metal framed floor mirror, watching fresh tears steadily drip down my flushed cheeks. Because of my lack of attention to my person during my recent breakdown, my espresso curly hair—tied into a bun—is dangerously matted. My usually-clear, caramel colored skin is dotted with newly sprouted pimples and has a dullness that would put my brother's to shame. Cue the waterworks again. Fuck me. Unfortunately, my inability to control my day-to-day emotions tends to pour into my more substantial emotional disturbances. I'm glaring at myself in my mirror once again, wishing for it all to be over. Suddenly, I'm completely upright with my head held high, except it isn't really me. She is holding a copper-toned hair brush, running the bristles through her released curly hair. I spot a Tiffany & Company heart pendant engraved with my first initial, an exact match to my own. I graze my fingers across my collarbone and sigh in relief, grateful to have a familiar object to comfort me. Her skin seems to be illuminated from within, much like a strong burning flame. Those hazel eyes I'd come to appreciate, however? I noticed not even a glint of my own spirit flickering behind them. My doppelganger's eyes appeared dark and cold. Eyes drilling into mine, she sighed, "You're pathetic, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"You have the audacity to bitch and moan here on the floor, ignoring any inkling that your current state is probably your own fault." By now, my carbon copy has placed the hair brush next to her on the floor, choosing to focus her attention on me.

"I-I can't even begin to know what you mean by that", I stammer in reply.

"Oh, please," my likeness scoffs, throwing her hands up. "Don't deny it. Isn't it a coincidence how everyone who attempts to extend a rope to you and help you shake this thing eventually just disappears from your life? I mean, isn't that what you really want? Complete isolation?" My heart descends to my stomach. I swallow audibly, and my twin takes this as an opportunity to launch yet another verbal assault.

"Face it," she slithers to her feet, peering down at me with her bone-chilling glare. "You need me. You want me. Your deplorable life wouldn't have an ounce of meaning without me to guide you. I know that you wish to believe that you own the ability to 'cure' yourself, but I regret to inform you that it's me. I own you,and I will retain my power until I wish to release you." She's shrieking inaudibly now, her voice rising to a blood curdling level. I slap my hands to shield my ears, rocking and attempting to control the pricking tears in my eyes, until finally, I crack, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Iam now staring at my own reflection, a river of salty tears steadily flowing along the sides of my swollen, red face. I roll over onto my right side and curl into a snug fetal position, my go-to for any trouble that occurs. My salvation is submission to the unstoppable force within.