"can you do me a favour?"

she asked.

"don't look at me."

•••••

I laid on the bed, my back pressed against the neatly-made covers. My black hoodie hangs off of the edge of my IKEA dresser.

A ratty, old, and kind-of smelly blanket with galloping horses on it is hugged tight to my chest. Underneath it, my Christmas-themed pajamas come up too short on my legs, and the sleeves of the scratchy top don't cover up the scars that ring the undersides of my wrists.

I don't want to go to school.

It may be 7:50 in the morning; half-an-hour later than the time that I'm 'supposed' to leave, but my father has made no move to try to get me to come out of my room.

It may be a routine for my not-quite-a-family by now, but everytime that my feet pad up the stairs at 10 o'clock, my heart sinks a little at the scattered array of bottles that decorate the floor.

My mum'll be off somewhere, probably desperately trying to maneuver the busy highways in a bright-yellow sedan.

And I'll lay here in my too-small PJ's until I pull on my black hoodie, pop a pill or two into my mouth, and dry-swallow them as I arrive late at school.

again.