Whose Fault? (Editing)

Chapter One ✔

Driving home from a long day at work, I blasted my favorite bands' newly released music, using the lyrics to distract me from my thoughts and the beat to improve my mood. I procrastinated longer than I should have. I stopped to pick up some food and drove around in circles while I ate. I sighed as I realized it was time to stop delaying the inevitable. I parked the Jeep when I pulled into the driveway. Collecting myself, I took a deep breath before gathering my things and walking to the front door. I hated this place.

I walked up the steps to the porch that wrapped around the side of the light baby blue house leading me to the front door. After walking in and locking up, I took in my surroundings wondering what memories the rooms would hold if things had been normal, good. The home was open concept and just had the "necessities." Looking to my left there was a living room that no one ever used. It was bare bones only having a couch, coffee table, and a TV hung on the wall. There were no pictures or knickknacks. The hallway in front of me led to the kitchen, dining area, and my mothers' room. It had been years since I'd used, much less stepped foot in, those rooms. I didn't remember much of what they looked like, but I knew there was a dining set and utilities in the dining room and kitchen. Beyond that was lost on me.

There was a part of me that, even at twenty, still wished things were different. A part that longed for the memories of playing with toys in the living room with my dad and baking cookies in the kitchen with my mom. A part of me wanted proof that there were people, a family, that lived here. A mess of a house with shoes and clothes lying around and pictures of family vacations and happy times hanging on the walls.

Closing my eyes and shaking the thoughts from my head, I turned to the right and walked upstairs knowing that would never happen. The only way to accurately describe my living space would be to call it an apartment. I had everything I needed up there, hence why I was never downstairs. The last step up the stairs led to the place that should have been my safe haven. In front of me was the living room and kitchen area. It was a large, almost awkward space, but I made it work as best I could. There was a large couch, coffee table, and a number of bookshelves stacked next to and on top of each other full of fantasy and romance books with a TV centered on top of them. Further ahead was the kitchen with a large island, keeping the areas connected and open. To my right were two bedrooms, both with attached bathrooms, and the laundry and utility room.

While I hated this house, I used to love my living space. It was always easy to get lost in my own little world I created for myself upstairs and forget the world outside. Even if I wasn't always in the right headspace, I always felt safe to be whoever and do whatever I wanted inside these walls... Until that was ripped away from me too.

On my way to the kitchen, I flung my backpack on to the couch. Then, I put the unfinished shake in the freezer before heading back to the couch and sitting down. I pulled out my notebooks filled with almost illegible notes and my laptop to get started on my assignments. I was once again in six classes this semester; this time half of them were important for my degree. Taking six courses two semesters in a row while working full time was exhausting, but I preferred not having enough time on my hands to start spiraling. After completing and submitting the assignments I needed, I started typing up the handwritten notes on my laptop. I would have typed up the notes in class, but I'd learned that I got behind when there were charts and other drawings the professors made during most of my classes.

Finally finishing after one in the morning, I contemplated taking a shower before finally ripping off my work clothes and heading into the bathroom. I couldn't help but stop to criticize myself in the mirror, hearing the words that tore down my confidence for years. My curly, light brown hair was in a mop of a messy bun on the top of my head, blue eyes lifeless as I took in the roundness of my face and weight around my midsection. Too chubby. My nose was crooked from one too many accidents. Scars littered my arms, hips, and thighs from times when I was unable to suppress my thoughts and felt out of control. Ugly, ugly, ugly.