I haven't always been like this. In this horrid, freakish, vulnerable state. It happened one night, very long ago, when I was still rejoicing stupidly in my half-spent youth. That night...
It was cold; the wind rattled the glass windows in their panes and the rain lashed at the solid walls of our old, blue blood owned manor. My little brother and I sat on a warm rug beside a roaring fire. I was staring deep into the dancing flames, thinking philosophical thoughts as always; he was simply building up blocks and knocking them down joyfully, with his chubby, clumsy fist. I loved my two year old brother dearly. So, so dearly. I would give my life for him.
Anyways, Connor and I were at home, all on our own, waiting for our parents to come back home after yet another dinner with their boss. I hated them. They were always so busy. With Connor, or work, or someone else that was never me. It was almost neglect. They felt I thought too much. They found it scary how I sat for hours on end, just rocking backwards and forwards, thinking.
I heard a noise upstairs. Now this is very unusual because my parents like to keep visitors away from the house. Away from their freaky daughter more like. And this wasn't just a creak. It was a thump. The thump repeated a few times before I decided to check it out. For Connor's sake. I ran upstairs, leaping the hurdles two at a time, before arriving at a room. The study. I pushed the door open and walked inside.
Our study isn't normal. It has a desk and chair and many papers cluttering the floors. And on the walls, pictures. Pictures of a girl with wispy black hair and hunting light brown eyes and a skinny frame with no smile on her sunken face. The walls are absolutely packed with her pictures. You can't even see the white walls beneath. There are pictures of x-ray scans of her brain. Of her body. Her finger painting. Her essays. She's so very beautiful. She's so very clever. That girl is me.
I suddenly heard a footstep...