Page 14 of Scattered Glitter

As if anything or anyone ever could.

Especially not me.

There are days when I want to smash every mirror I see, to shatter that reflection into a million pieces so I don’t have to face her, face myself. I don’t. Instead, I cover myself in glitter, paint on a smile, and pretend that the girl in the mirror is someone else.

Someone who didn’t get her sister killed.

Someone who deserves to be here, living and breathing, while Rosalee isn’t.

My damp hair hangs down my back, and with it out of the way and the glitter gone, the burn scar with its ugly, jagged edges on my right shoulder is visible, a permanent map of pain etched into my flesh.

At least it’s not red anymore. It’s simply… there.Always there.

When I’m honest, the glitter is also a mask. A way to hide the parts of me that I can’t bear to face. To hide the scars, bury the guilt, and convince everyone, maybe even myself, that I can still shine, even if it’s a lie.

I’ve thought about covering the burn scar with a rose tattoo, a tribute to Rosalee. But I can’t bring myself to permanently hide the ugliness. My fingertip traces the outline of it, feeling the raised, uneven skin beneath. I deserve to look like this.

She paid a far greater price because of me.

An image flashes through my mind.Rosalee slumped in the back seat, blood trickling out of her nose.The memory is so vivid, so real, that for a moment, I swear I can smell the gasoline and burned rubber, and a scream rips through my head. It’s so real it almost echoes off the bathroom walls.

“No, no, no…” I whimper, whirling around and barely making it to the toilet before I heave, expelling the Twinkie and whatever else was left in my stomach. Tears stream down my face, mixing with the sweat on my skin.

When will it stop? When will I be free of these memories, this guilt?

Deep down, I know the answer.

Never.

This is my cross to bear, and I’ll carry it for as long as I have to.

Until we meet again and I can beg for their forgiveness for the rest of eternity.

I pull myself up from the bathroom floor, my legs shakybeneath me. Part of me knows this can’t go on forever, that one day I’ll hit the kind of rock bottom you can’t climb out of. For now, I keep telling myself there’s still time, still a way to pull myself out of the wreckage. Just not today.

Slipping into sweats and a cami, I twist my damp hair into a messy bun and make my way to the living room, where I collapse onto the couch and grab the remote, flicking on the television to my comfort show.

MasterChefis a reality television show about aspiring home cooks battling it out in a high-pressure kitchen. It’s a familiar, soothing background noise that doesn’t demand my full attention. I can’t cook for shit, yet somehow, this show helps ground me. I’ve seen all episodes a hundred times, and today, it lets my mind drift, which I know isn’t good.

I need a distraction, not to fall even deeper into this hole.

The second-best option, after getting my ass up and to the gym, which is still out of the question, would be to smoke a blunt or start drinking again, but I’m out of both.

We need groceries badly. No, wait,Ineed groceries. Annabelle won’t be around anyway.

I’m officially on my own now.

Fuck.

Desperate foranythingthat could help, I reach for my latest distraction—a diamond painting kit I impulsively bought online last week. I dump the tiny, colorful gems onto the coffee table, watching them scatter everywhere.

I hoped it would keep my thoughts at bay, but it’s mindless work, placing each piece into its designated spot, so methodically filling in the outlines of a unicorn, but it doesn’t stop my mind’s downhill path.

As a diamond slips from my fingers, hitting the floor and rolling under the couch, I curse under my breath and bend down to retrieve it. I try to focus, but my hands keep fumbling, knocking more diamonds onto the floor, and mypatience snaps. Abandoning the diamond painting, I shove the remaining stones across the table, letting them scatter wherever they may.

This isn’t fucking working.

None of it is.

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