Page 3 of Collateral Damage

“I didn't work in the police force for nothing kiddo. You'll be surprised what kind of sick and twisted people are out there.” Why is he bringing this up when he was the one who droppedout? He could be protecting me from the sickos he preaches about but instead he sits at home coddling me like a child. All he ever talks about is a life he no longer lives, a life I have told him to run back to but he refuses to acknowledge that my burden is now his to bear. My fuse blows, pushing myself up from the stool, the legs ringing against the tiled floor as I use all my force to get up off the chair in anguish.

“Yeah well. You can't protect me forever.”I’m hurt and I'm angryand tomorrow I will probably hate myself for the things I’ve said but right now I don’t care, families have arguments all the time, this is normal.Right?Hopefully they will listen to me for once and realise I am not a kid anymore, I am a grown ass woman who’s aching to experience things beyond my four walls. From an outsider's perspective I have the perfect life and the perfect parents, and maybe I do, maybe I am the problem. No.I know I am the problem,and I cannot change it, I cannot fix it, I can only live with it. I know I shouldn't be angry at them; they didn’t give this to me but right now I need someone to blamefor the strings tying me down, I need to pin my fury on something.

I make my way upstairs, stomping my feet like a child as I do, drowning out the things they should be saying to me right now but they are not. They aren’t saying a word, they let me go and my guilt swallows me. They know I don’t mean it and they also know that one day they won’t be here to tuck me in at night and write out my schedule for the week; set alarms for my pen and have emergency doctors on standby just in case. So what I said was not exactly wrong, but I can be mad at them for a little while, mad at them for being too perfect… Mad at them for caring too much. I’m lucky I have parents whoLovethis hard, but sometimes it’s overwhelming and exhausting. If you give a flowertoomuch water, you'll drown it. And I feel like I'mdrowning.My pot is spilling over taking the soil with me.

I throw my bag on the bed before following suit. My back hitting the mattress, arms spread and I glare at the ceiling. My room is made up of all the things that complete me, yet I still feel so empty. Its beige, fluffy blankets and cushions scatter my perfectly pristine bed. My black bass guitar and vinyl records displayed on their shelves hang flush against the wall by my window. I love music. I love all things creative. I love art. It’s a symphony I understand, I speak to art like Love. It's how I escape. I make memories through paper, and movies through songs.

After a momentary cool down, I pull my phone from my black knitted cardigan.

I slip off my little black docs, crawling onto my front, tucking a duck feather pillow underneath my chin exhaling a disappointed sigh.

I glare at the phone, dissociating for a moment, wanting so desperately to tell Jack to pick me up tomorrow. But it will only cause more harm than good and that impulsive thought will feel dumb when I wake with a guilty conscience. So I stare at the chat a little longer, rolling my eyes in frustration as I lock the screen and throw it on my bed.

??

It’s been a few hours and I’ve ploughed my feelings into a new story I’m writing. It’s a story about a girl who escapes her captivity and falls madly in love with a stable boy she runs away with. I’m a sucker for romance, which is funny coming from someone who has never even kissed a boy before. But a girl candream. I was so engrossed in writing that I missed dinner, but I wasn't hungry anyway. I would rather not sit at the table playing with my food in tension as thick as fog. Sleep should wash away the awkwardness by tomorrow.

My alarm goes and I glance down at my phone.

My least favourite time of day. Mom usually does it for me in the evenings, but I'm in no mood to see her right now. Slipping into my jammies, I take my pen from my bedside table, lining the little needle up with my fleshy skin just above my abdomen and click, placing the fresh pen back in the pocket of my shorts.

Timid footsteps creep up the staircase beyond my bedroom door followed by a gentle knock as I run my brush through my cocoa hair.

“Did you take your Lantus sweetie?” Her voice is gentle, a mixture between her natural persona and the way I'm fragile as of right now. She should be angry with me but she’s not, caring for me still.

“Yes Mom.” I glared at the door expecting her to come in, but she doesn’t. I guess this is the first proper argument we’ve everhad. I know she isn't my biological Mother, but she has been in my life since I can remember and looked after me like I came out of her womb. For a long time I thought she was my biological Mother until I was old enough to understand, but by that time the truth didn’t hurt. It never has, she will always be my mom and I wouldn't ever change that.

“You missed dinner, have you eaten?”No. I ate enough today to last me all week.

“Yes.”I lie.My replies are short and blunt, I don’t want her to come in, but at the same time I am craving a hug.

“You know we love you right?” She argues her point, she can hear my hurt and she is never short of reassurance. They are strict but they are good at being gentle.

“I know.” I crawl underneath the bed covers, clutching my pillow tightly. I’m not a crier. I can’t even remember the last time I cried; I have no reason to cry really. But I won't deny the lump forming in the back of my throat.I hate crying.

“We just want to keep you safe.” I've heard that a million times before, but for some reason now it just sounds different.

“I know.”

“Sweet Dreams Sweetie. I Love You.”

“Love you too.” I roll onto my back, rubbing underneath my eyes before picking back up my phone and surfing through Facebook at silly memes and what people are up to. I don’t really use it, I don't know why I look, seeing everyone out doing things only makes me feel worse, but I look anyway. Smiling away at the life I will never live at this rate. I can keep daydreaming my life away. Living through the ink on my pages, bleeding out my selfish emotions so people don’t have to hear me moan about myperfect life.

A never-ending cycle of silent melancholy.

C H A P T E R 2

MY FINAL ACT

Puppeteer

Play - 'What I've Done - Linkin Park’

Justice.

It's so close now, I can smell it.

I've waited eleven painful years for this very moment. I served my time, but I didn’t learn my lesson. Call me relentless but some people don't deserve to breathe, certainly not this sack of shit. I will die withering away in a pool of my own blood if I have to, but not yet. Not until he bleeds her cries.

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