I Am Keeley

Chapter 7: Paper Towels

Just then, the front door opens, and the Moretti's, my father, and Finn all slowly file into the house.

"Keeley, what's going on?" my father asks while eyeing my face. My mask is up right now because I don't know how to feel and I never do. I become destructive when more than one emotion is coursing through my body. Phillips told me that's why I have so many mood swings: when one becomes too much, I switch to another like nothing else happened.

"Nothing, I'm going to do my homework."

"No, you're not. I already told you that you have to come with me. Everybody does this at least once, and you are no exception," he seethes while looking straight into my eyes. I sneak a quick glimpse to my side and see that all of the guys are equally confused as to what is happening.

I turn back to Nick and try to maintain my composure. "You don't think I've done what you're talking about before?" I look at him in surprise. "You don't think that at any time in the past five years, where I killed people whenever instructed, that I haven't brought torture on to somebody else? That I haven't caused somebody to plead for death, only for me to make it drag on for days? That I don't know what it's like? Because I know it probably a lot more than you think. I may only be seventeen, Nick, but I was forced to grow the hell up. I never got the choice of whether or not I wanted to do that. So the next time you want to force me to help you with something I'm not comfortable with, maybe back the fuck off."

I snatch my backpack out of his hands before going up the stairs, and I don't look back.

When I get to my room, Gus is laying on the floor looking like he just woke up. I move to my bed and crawl into it while my best boy comes to lay down right next to me. I look into his sweet eyes as I scratch his ears gently. I match my breathing to his own, and soon enough, my body relaxes.

Part of me wants to tell my family what happened just so they might get off my back. So that maybe I don't have to look over my shoulder every second of every day. So that maybe I can just be okay.

But I can't. The more they know, the more dangerous everything gets. They'll look at me differently, and as selfish as it may seem, I won't tell them. I can't have them panicking or getting a target placed on their heads. I can't lose them too.

Trying to distract my mind, I pull my backpack onto my bed. Now's a better time than any to get some stuff done.

***

Five hours. I look at my little clock and I've been doing homework for the past five hours. It's now nine o'clock, and I have still yet to eat or do my painting for tomorrow.

I groan as I stand up and walk to my bathroom. As I gaze in the mirror, it's quite evident that I look just how I feel: like shit. My hair is sticking up and tangled down my back and dark circles lined the bottom of my eyes. I had washed the makeup off my face earlier that had covered my bruise, and now I can see that it's a lot worse than I originally thought. It's grown just a little bit till it now covers not only my right eye and temple but part of my cheekbone as well. The bullet wound on my neck is doing better, though. I've been religiously applying creams and band-aids to it.

I use the bathroom and change into an old pair of sweats and a tank top before going to my paint room. I turn on some classical music and just stare at the blank canvas in front of me.

"Paint someone who has or still is hurting you. Who, whether you realize it or not, controls every single thing you do. Paint with your feelings, not with your mind. When I look at this, I want to feel your pain."

Ms. Loren's voice rings in my head as I compose a mental list of everyone who influences the things I do. Is it the man who continued to hurt me for months on end till I escaped on the brink of death? Is it my father who is there but no matter what I do, it will never be enough for him? Is it a certain Italian who walked straight into my life and no matter how much I like him, it hurts me that I've let my guard down? Or is it... my mother? The woman who never cared for me or even remotely liked me? The woman who died in my arms when I was twelve and who told me that she never loved me but appreciated me being there so she didn't have to be alone?