Author's Note

Chapter 15 - Pathetic

I cried when I woke up.

Shocker, I know. All I seem to do is cry, isn't it? I was fairly sure that I hadn't gone a day without crying since I actually remembered where the story was going. You must think I'm pathetic: I sure do. And no, I'm not looking for you to tell me "no, Lucy, I don't think you're pathetic at all!" because I'm sure you've said something to me before but I can't actually hear you, in case you haven't already realised. So I couldn't hear you if you told me I wasn't pathetic, and even if I did, it wouldn't make that much of a difference. Something I've learned from my writing journey is that you can't impact the way a book character thinks. Also, you'd be lying to both me and yourself, and I don't appreciate that, thank you.

So yes, I am pathetic. And I guess that's fine. I mean, what's wrong with it? I'm a teenage girl, leave me alone with your judgemental thoughts.

Besides, crying doesn't necessarily make you pathetic. You're allowed to cry. I, however, am not, simply because I do not have a right to: I was the one who got myself into this mess and I was the one who could have changed it but most certainly did not, and that's what makes me pathetic; how I cry even though I brought this upon myself and didn't change it.

Looking back on it, I wish I did. What if I had? What if I had changed the whole plot line and not screwed this whole thing up? Maybe I'd still be in the right mental state, maybe I wouldn't be on the brink of crazy as I write this, in the very literal sense. Though life is too short for what ifs. 'What' and 'if' are two words as non-threatening as words can be, but put them together side by side and they have the power to haunt you for the rest of your life. That's a quote I've always liked. Suits the situation, I'd say.

So life is too short for what ifs. Even if you're technically living two of them, like both me and Hannah Montana. Hey, I haven't thought of that before. Am I like Hannah Montana? If I am, then that means that this whole thing sucks a little less, even if it's only a little difference. I've always loved Hannah Montana. Always sucked at singing, as well. Crushed my little heart when mum broke the news to me.

I cried when I woke up.

Actually cried: snot and tears and sobbing and all. Disgusting, to tell the truth; my pillow got covered in mucus and it was vile. Just as vile as the word mucus. Seriously, who thought up that word? I hate it, like I hate the word juicy, all of these are thoughts that I had while my nose was blocked with mucus and fat, juicy tears rolled down my cheeks and nose and caught on my cracked lips.

Alas, it was not the weekend, and I couldn't lay in bed for twelve years just wallowing and drowning in self pity. Classes started late today, though, which is why I got to have a lie in while my other body was making out with a short girl with dark skin and frizzy hair. School! Oh so wonderful school, filled with barely-edible food and depressed, snappy teenagers who I was sure were permanently on their periods - yes, even the guys - because half of them were horny and half of them were pissed off and half of them were pissed off because they were horny. A wonderful place, school.

Hours dragged, classes dragged, lunches dragged, days and nights dragged, all while I was trying to pluck up the courage to finish this damn chapter. It still only had a thousand words - courtesy of my inspired Monday late-night writing - and sure, sure I could keep writing, writing about how we had gotten lost and about how angry Thomas was getting and how his mood was dropping by the day (night?) and how his temper was thinning, wearing, his mental disorder clearly playing tricks on him. Sure, sure I could keep writing about these things, but every time I had to get to that part my mind just blanked and my throat got all tight, a telltale sign that I was about to burst into tears yet again, so I had to slam my laptop shut and take a breather and then divert the story, buy me some more time to prolong it.