"Life is either a great adventure or it's nothing," -Helen Keller. 

     The human experience is the most outstanding thing that has ever occurred in science. The earth is like an elaborate puzzle, where each piece has been carefully placed to reveal the images behind the misshapen fragments. So many pieces had to fall together to create this fantastic world, so many things could have gone wrong along the way that it is more than simply amazing to see the modern world that surrounds the human race. 

    Start with the Big Bang, for example. No one can really prove what happened just yet, but it's the scientific explanation for the beginning of the universe. Many describe it as the mixing of gases in such an extreme level that it caused a massive explosion which created everything. If it weren't for this, the mere mixing of gases, everything would not exist.  

    Some scientists state that apparently if the earth had not been in this exact location in the universe, at this exact angle, surrounded by the same planets in similar circumstances . . . Life would've been incapable of occurring on earth. Isn't that astounding? That a few minor details can change everything. 

    And with all of this, there comes the mystery of human life. Religious people would say that everyone is in the spitting image of God, directly descended from Him and His blood line. While many others argue Darwin's theory of evolution, stating that we mutated from one ancestor (popularly thought of as apes, but scientists have recently suggested that possibly humans are the descendants of fish) that eventually became humans. 

    But the big mystery, the one that has failed to be legitimately answered, the one that has baffled scientists for centuries is the simplest one . . . why?  

    Yes, technically, the "why" can be explained by understanding natural selection. But . . . there has to be more than that, doesn't there? What is the point in this, in everything, if we aren't here for some ultimate purpose? You, reading this pointless page, what are you doing with your life? Why? Why? Why?! 

     Philosophers have been baffled by this question for . . . eternity. Many have concluded that the meaning of life is a deeply personal mater, only one you can understand. But those, philosophers, are stupid. Obviously, they don't deserve their title.  Because life is about . . . living, or shit like that. There’s even a science behind the why: we're here because of exceptional circumstances, some of which were described above.  All that sentimental crap that bores us all, makes us feel a sense of shame, because we haven't done anything! Not me, not you.

    That's where Helen Keller comes in. Her quote is . . . ordinary, plainly put. But yet, it describes the truth that resides within all of us. That we have to make our lives, shape our destinies, mould our fate. Or else we're nothing, as Helen Keller so nicely put. But she was being kind; she really meant that otherwise you'd just be dust in the wind, ashes long forgotten. 

    Because the truth is, ninety-nine percent of all human beings that have ever and will ever be on the earth are just dust. Reality is that one percent of all people that will ever live will accomplish anything, and that's considering all those imbeciles that have blundered into fame. Creating something, achieving anything . . . you better prepare to say hello to plain, ordinary and meaningless lives.  

    And that's why I don't understand why we keep on trying. What's the point on fighting a losing battle, of rowing a sinking ship? Why try, why suffer through our already predetermined fates, when giving up would be so easy? Now, it could even be painless.  

    As Peter Pan, or rather J.M. Berrie, once said, “Death is but the next adventure.”

    So I chose to die. 

    And I failed.

    My train of thought was interrupted by a meaningless noise, a noise not worth my attention, yet causing me to lose my focus. My eyes wandered down the work I had done, scanning my words . . . they’re honest and revealed my genuine thoughts, but they weren’t what I was looking for. After all, I was trying to convince my therapist I was ready to leave therapist by completely this futile essay on the meaning of life for her. After reading this, she would probably assign me more time.

    Note to self: write more cheerfully.

    I could hear my mother's voice echoing throughout the room, although she probably thought she was whispering. Regardless, her voice bounced among the walls, gyrating in my ears. A smile teased my lips, one that had nothing to be amused about, per usual.

    "I don't know what to do with her," Mom stage-whispered, her attempt at keeping quiet was hysterical.

    She turned and glanced at me over her shoulder, and I pretended to be completely engrossed by my writing and the television program in front of me. Even though, really, it was just white noise. Or rather, what do you call it when you don't enjoy it?

    "No, the doctors didn't recommend that," she continued, once she was positive I wasn't listening. "Although, personally, I was all for sending her. After everything that has happened-"

    Mom paused, most likely interrupted by whomever she had been speaking to. I could see the muscles in her back before stiff, probably uncomfortable and/or stressed.

    Finally, she spoke again. "Would you? I mean, I doubt want to put you in an uncomfortable situation and-"

    Pause.

    "Three months," she murmured.

    The amount of time I’ve been out of the hospital, plus the duration of time that I haven’t left the house. My mother basically hadn’t left since then either, except to do errands like getting groceries and what not.

    "I can't ask you that," Mom insisted. "And it might be awkward with Bren-"

    I couldn't even concentrate on her next words, my thoughts wandered to Brenda Wright, my demon cousin from hell. Bren and I used to be friends, until I realized she was a complete monster. She was the type of girl everyone hated. Airhead, snob, arrogant, selfish . . . plus, she was a slut. Which I guess among her other traits weren't that bad, but was still pretty horrid.

    Mom sighed. "Well, alright. If you insist, but . . . she's a hand full. Medication, specific diet, certain sleeping habits. All the fun things that come with victims, or whatever it's that she's calling herself now."

    Pause.

    "Alright, I'll bring her over later. And . . . thanks, sis."

*

    "No, no, no, no, no," I repeated. "There is no way I'm going near that skank's house."

    "Abigail Taylor," Mom snapped, her eyes widening at my choice of language.

    "I'm sorry, but it's true," I insisted. "I'm not stepping in there, let alone spending the night!"

    She took a deep breath, grabbing my bag from the ground and slipping on her shoes, preparing to exit. "This isn't an option."

    Mom kneeled down in front of me, trying to push my shoes on my feet. I kicked them out, curling my toes and flicking them away. Mom groaned, snatching another pair from the closet.

    "No matter how many shoes you put on me, I'm not going," I informed her, my mind searching for anything that might get me out of it. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in my head, one that lit no light. "If you try to make me, I'll kill myself."

    Her fingers froze on my laces and she remained silent for a moment. She moved away from me, abruptly, rising to her feet once more. I could hear her taking shallow breathes, seeing trembles run through her body. Pain radiated from every fibre of her body, yet . . . I felt nothing.

    I hadn't felt anything in a very long time.

    When she did finally speak, her voice trembled. "Please don't joke about things like that."

   "Mom." I sighed. "Please don't make me go. She makes me miserable, and then I get depressed. And when I get depressed-"

    "I get depressed!" Mom hissed. "Goodness, Abigail . . . can't you do this for me? After everything you've put me through, I'm begging you, I need a break."

    My eyes narrowed. "That so nice of you to say."

    "You're breaking my heart," she told me.

    I gulped. "Stop trying to guilt me into doing things. You know-"

    "Yes, I know," she snarled. "You're a victim, you have suffered through abuse. So obviously, I'm just supposed to stop my life forever just for you!"

    I considered this. "Why, yes, your theory could become a law."

    Mom groaned. "Do you understand how selfish that is?"

    I couldn't help it, I snorted, unable able to comprehend the audacity that flowed through her words. She was a complete and utter hypocrite. "What's selfish is forcing your depressed daughter into doing something that makes her uncomfortable, just so she can go dancing."

    She blushed and I knew I was right. My own mother couldn't stand being near me, she'd rather go dancing with girlfriends. Great mom.

    "I'm telling you, if you make me go, I'll kill myself," I told her.

   She gulped. "Yeah, well . . . me, too, Abby. I love you, you know I do, but I've been sitting with you for three months just praying you'll get better. But nothing has happened, you haven't even tried! And right now I'm worried I'll go insane if things don't change. I need to get out of here."

   Her words played again in my mind, on replay. I imagined them again, allowed them to come to life there. Pause. Rewind. Reply. Repeat.

    One thing that everyone should know me about . . . I have one truth, among my life of lies. That truth is that life is a lie. That may be a depressing truth, but it's the only real one. And that truth is like an onion, layer upon layer that make you cry, so many aspects to it that you barely have time to consider it all. One of those layers, though, is where those lies came from.

    For me, those lies came from my mother. My mother and I, although complete opposites, have one thing in common. We lie as well as Life; lies being our tongue, our first language. My mother was the one who taught me to lie.

    So when she spoke those words, I knew she was lying. I knew whatever she was saying was false and that I must not trust her, but it was . . . hard. My mother was a good liar; she could even lie to herself. And I saw her eyes, those lying pain-filled eyes.

    And I gave in.

    "If I kill her tonight, it's not my fault," I told her.

    She smiled, knowing the brilliance in her lies.

*

   The house was pretty, as always. Painted a perfect snowy white, adorned with flawless navy shutters, the windows glistening in the dying sun; the front law was clipped straight with a line of yellow poppies lining the house. Although beautiful, I had never seen a deader place before . . . not even the hospital, or the cemetery.

    Mom gripped the steering wheel. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

    My eyebrows rose. "Do you want to see a shooting?'

    She sighed. "Don't be so dramatic, Abby. I know you and your cousin don’t necessarily see eye to eye, but . . . please don't be too hard on your aunt."

    I rolled my eyes. "I'd rather hang out with her than with Bren."

    "Oh, come on! She's not that bad," Mom insisted.

    “She's a whore!" I hissed.

    "Abby!" Mom snapped. "Really?! How many times do I have to ask you not to speak like that? Please, don't be like this in front of Bren and especially not your aunt. Got it?"

    "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

    "Are you even listening?"

    "No, no, no."

    "Good," she replied. "Now, you have your bag? Good. Alright, I'll love you and miss you. Have a good time tonight, honey, bye."

    Within a few seconds, she had grabbed my things and was stuffing them into my hands. With a moment, I was standing on the sidewalk, watching my door slam shut, and my mom speed off into the sunset. Her thoughts probably occupied on the next thing.

    I could tell she loved me.

     I made sure I actually had all my things, and not like my mom said because she's a forgetful cow, and headed towards the house. I glanced in the window, to make sure no one was looking, before I spat in the flowers. Didn't look so pretty now, do you?

    Knock.

    Knock.

    Knock.

    Kno-

     Halfway through my fourth knock -because I was just going to keep knocking until the door opened- the door was ripped open. I found myself peering into the wide green-gray eyes of Aunt Janice, smiling at me with her polite yet pitiful thin lips.

    "Sup," I greeted, casually.

    She continued smiling, but her right eye twitched, clearly irritated by my use of vocabulary. "Always so good to see you, my dear. Please, come in."

     Aunt Janice –or Jan for short- was pretty, like her house, if you get what I mean. She had a heart-shaped face with sparkling green-gray eyes and a long nose and thin pink lips, always adorned flawlessly in makeup, dressed in a form-flattering sundresses which completed her housewife look. Yet she looked . . . cold, like there was nothing to her but her appearance. Which I knew from personal experience to be true with Aunt Jan.

    I stepped into this hell with dimmable lighting, forcing myself into smiling politely. The house smelled sickly sweet, like cookies were being baked in the kitchen, so thick the air almost tasted of it. The house was prodded and plucked to perfection.

    Almost on cue, Aunt Jan asked, "Would you like a cookie?"

    From personal experience, I knew Aunt Jan's cookies always tasted like shit. So I was prepared to answer long before I arrived. "No, thanks."

     She pursued her lips, irritated, before smiling again. "Anyways, Bren's in the basement with her friends already, since you're a little late to the party."

    "Ah, shucks," I muttered.

    She smiled, sweetly. "Yes, now down you go."

     I swallowed down the urge to roll my eyes, Aunt Jan was so dramatic. Regardless of her passive-aggressive attitude, I followed her directions and headed down the stairs, promising I wouldn't kill Bren or her stupid little friends. When, in reality, I wanted them all to burn to ashes in a terrible fire.  And that's just putting it nicely.

    Okay, maybe I was being a tad dramatic. But after everything that had happened between Bren and I . . . I couldn’t stand being near her.

    The basement, frankly, was pretty awesome.  A fireplace and a flat screen TV, surrounded by a mass of couches, lined one side of the gigantic room. On the other side of the room, a bar sat huddled, embellished with all sorts of high-tech features.

    The four girls sat on the couches, watching a movie on the TV. They’re giggling, laughing loudly at whatever was occurring on the screen. I wanted to run away immediately. Abruptly, the laughing stopped. The four girls were gawking at me, expressions of disgust written across their features. I was tempted to punch them all.

    "Why, if it isn't the four ogres of Who Cares county?" I asked, breaking the awkward silence. "Sorry, Bren, I meant troll. I know how you're sensitive about these sorts of things."

     My cousin Bren looked a lot like her mother. The same almond-shaped green-gray eyes lined by thick black lashes, her porcelain skin and glossy pink lips. She was short with a lithe figure, wearing a floral corset to and tight jeans. Her voice was smoky when she spoke. "Well, well, well . . . look what the cat dragged in. The poor thing just be going senile, we should put him down."

     Two of the other girls laughed, snorting and shrieking, which was quite unattractive.

     The third, however, just scowled. She was pretty, in an elfin sort of way, with her wide hazel eyes and chopped auburn hair that perfectly framed her face. She had wide cheekbones, with a long straight nose and flush red lips. She was short, really short, with a slight figure dressed in leggings and a baggy sweat shirt.

    "I'm Jolie," the elfin girl introduced herself, smiling politely. "You're Abby, right?"

      "Yup." No matter how nice any of these ogres might appear, I wasn’t going to be all friendly with them. Besides, they couldn't really be that nice if they're friend with Bren. 

     "You can set your stuff down," Bren told me. "Then get out of your way."

     I rolled my eyes, but followed her directions. Afterwards, I handed her a small silver-wrapped box. Or rather, threw it at her. "So, I got you a present, bitch."

    "Thanks, Aunt Lynn," she responded, naming my mother and her aunt, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Tell her I love it."

    "Not even going to open it?"

    Bren snorted. "Please, we both know that there's something tacky and handmade in here."

    "Not going to argue there." I paused. "Do you have any beer down here?"

    Bren scowled. "Since when has perfect Abigail Taylor drunk alcohol?"

     I shrugged. "Do you care? Personally, I plan on getting loner wasted in the corner while you guys . . . do lame girl shit."

    Bren shrugged. "Touché. Just don't barf on me, or you'll die."

    "Whatever."

*

   The alcohol stirred within my body, fogging my mind and my sense. My skin tingled endlessly, my stomach flopping excitedly within me, my eyes unable to focus . . . the physical effects of being drunk lingered within me, making me uncomfortable, but helping to dull the pain of remembering. Of remembering-

    Nope, now it obviously wasn’t working. I took another shot of vodka, letting the strong taste burn my throat. The pain was bitter sweet.

    I closed my eyes for a moment, allowing the ignorance bliss to set in. Yet there was this . . . this thinking! Couldn’t I turn off my thoughts for once?

    “Careful there,” someone muttered, carefully grabbing the small glass from my hand, before I could drop it. “Don’t want to hurt yourself.”

    “Not like you care,” I slurred, knowing the person probably couldn’t understand what I was trying to say. Not that I really cared.

     My eyes found Jolie, Bren’s elfin friend. She smiled at me politely, but I could see through her lie, she was uncomfortable around me. I couldn’t exactly blame her, seeing as I was as drunk as a skunk. Although alcohol has never really had much of an effect on me.

    “Still want to be careful,” she insisted. “Drinking so much so fast can be damaging on your body and nobody would want you to hurt yourself-”

    “Do us a favour and shut up,” I replied.

    Jolie bit her lip before her eyes narrowed. “You know, not to be a bitch, but you’re being a bitch. I was only trying to help you and be nice.”

    “Yeah, well, I’m not very nice,” I responded. “Besides, I don’t want to talk to twig bitches like you anyways. So, please, let me drink in peace.”

    Before she could leave, Bren called out. “Jolie, get Abby over her! My mom’s coming down to see if we’re having fun!”

    Which we all knew was translation for making sure I hadn’t died yet. Although no one had said a word to me, I knew Bren had probably told them about what happened to me. About how I tried to kill myself . . . I could see the judgemental look in their eyes.

    Jolie basically dragged me to where the other girls were sitting, circled in front of the fireplace. Drinks were placed in front of them all, a forced smile shaping each of their lips.

    “Now, listen,” Bren hissed at me. “If Mom asks what we’re doing, tell her that we’re enjoying an oh, so fun game of Never Have I Ever. Understand?”

    “Whatever, troll.”

    “Not whatever,” she snapped. “If you get me in trouble with her, I’ll make sure to tell her all about your drinking tonight. And I’m sure Aunt Lynn won’t be too pleased to hear that about her little pride and joy.”

    I glared at her, wanting to punch her for using my mom’s nickname for me. “I’ll tell her that you’re trying to blame you and your little friends drinking on me. Blackmail on the defenceless already-official victim, who you took advantage of. Who do you think is more believable?”

    Her green-gray eyes narrowed. “Well played, loser. But let’s face it, starting this little fight won’t do either of us any good, so why don’t you just- I ever kissed a boy!”

    Bren instantly changed her choice of words when she her mother descending the stairs, creating the false impression that we’re actually playing that horrendous drinking game. She smiled her fakest smile at Aunt Jan, quickly glancing at all of us to see who would follow along.

    None of the girls took a drink from their glass.

    Liars.

    Aunt Jan came down, holding a tray with bowls of different sorts of entrees. She smiled warmly at us, as we played our little game of Never Have I Ever, which should’ve been renamed Actually I Have in this form. I could tell when the girls didn’t drink; it meant they had actually done said deed. The girls didn’t drink often.

    Suddenly, Aunt Jan started sniffing the room. “Has someone been drinking down here?”

    Bren’s eyes snapped to mine, full of loathing, yet she said nothing because she knew the truth. But Aunt Jan, with her sharp senses, would know something was up. I prayed that she would give these girls a butt-whopping so hard they would be unable to walk.

    Jolie, unfortunately, had to save the day. “Sorry, Mrs. Wright, that’s probably my mouth-wash. I took a swig to clear my mouth earlier, and the alcohol brands clean so much better than th-“

    Is that really the best she has? I thought. Her story has so many loopholes . . . how can anyone possibly take this in? Well, maybe Aunt Jan, since she’s pretty gullible.

    “Oh, of course!” Aunt Jan exclaimed. “That makes so much more sense. I’m sorry I asked . . . But, maybe, play another game. Not that I don’t trust all of you lovely ladies, it would just make me feel a bit more comfortable if you all did something else.”

    “Of course, Mommy,” Bren told her, smiling sickly sweet.

    Aunt Jan stood there a moment, somewhat expectedly. That’s when I realized she wanted proof that we had changed the game, but none of the others seemed to realize that just yet.

    “Truth or dare?” I asked the girl sitting next to me.

    She was different than Jolie and Bren, but not in a good way. Her hair was chestnut brown, coiling around her hips, sliding down her curvy figure. She had mean coffee bean eyes on an olive-toned oval face, along with a bulky straight nose and full lips pulled into a seductive grin.  She wore a crop top and booty shorts . . . what a slut, I instantly thought. And that’s considering when I’m sitting here with Bren.

    The girl rolled her eyes. “Dare.”

    Aunt Jan turned around to leave, but I could see from the stiffness of her shoulders that she was still listening. I continued to speak. “I dare you to; uh . . . do one hundred jumping jacks!”

    On the staircase, the sounds of muffled footsteps generally could be heard throughout the entire basement. Yet now there was only silence . . . she was still listening, that bitch. Aunt Jan really wasn’t one to trust. Why couldn’t she believe I was being included and let me continue drinking and hating on the others?

    “Do them,” Bren hissed at her friend.

    Groaning, the slutty girl stood, moving away from us. She started to do her jumping jacks, rolling her eyes every time her arms swung above her head. To be honest, I couldn’t help but giggle, seeing the disgusted expression moulding her face.

    Next to me, Jolie started laughing a bit, too. And soon, Bren and the second girl I didn’t know were joining us in chuckling, as amused as I at the slutty girl.

    The girl finally finished get jumping jacks after a few minutes, narrowing her eyes at me. Her voice was husky when she spoke. "What's so funny, loser?"

    "That you think I'm a loser when you have to see that face in the mirror," I told her, smirking.

    She rolled her eyes. "You're such a freak."

    "Says the girl who looks like she belongs in the circus," I replied.

    "You know what? I completed your dare. You should compete one of mine," she hissed.

    I could see in her eyes that she had something devious planned, and I really wasn't in the mood to deal with this girls passive-aggressive problems. "Nope."

    "Why not?" She pouted. "Do we have a little chicken?"

    I considered this. "Why, yes."

    "Oh, come on!" Bren insisted. "Aren't you supposed to be fun or something?"

    "Get out of my way and let me booze up," I said, ignoring them.

    Bren smirked. "Don't do the dare and I'll Mom you're drinking."

    I snorted. "Is that really the best you got? Bitch, please. I'll tell Aunt Jan that you're blackmailing me because you're the ones drinking."

     "I'll tell Mom anyways and she'll take away the drinks, so you can't get wasted," she told me. "Just do one dare and then you can go back to doing your little depressing drinking thing."

    I groaned. "Fine. Go ahead with this little dare, but afterwards, you better leave me alone."

    Bren grinned, victorious. "Go ahead, Everleigh."

    She had speaking to the slutty girl, who was apparently named Everleigh. Everleigh smiled, maliciously happy. "My pleasure. Truth or dare, Abby?"

    I rolled my eyes. "I thought we had already established this, dumbass. A dare for a dare."

    Her eyes widened. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

    "Yes. I don't want to answer any of your shallow questions," I assured her.

    "So dare?"

    I groaned. "Yes! Goodness, are all of your friends so stupid, Bren?"

    Bren rolled her eyes. "At least I actually have friends."

    "Bitch, please. I'd rather have no friends than this group of imbeciles, Bren. Be-"

    "I dare you to pick truth," Everleigh interrupted.

    My eyes narrowed. "So now you're a cheater? Well, that's no surprise, I guess. Bren did always associate with those of the . . . lower class."

    "It's my birthday, remember, Abby? I'll be the judge." Bren grinned viciously. "Please, continue, Ev."

     I scowled, wanting to get this over with so I could get away from these bitches and to the drinking. "What do you want?"

    "Pick truth."

    "Fine . . . truth."

    "Did you actually try to kill yourself?" She asked.

    Silence.

    To be honest, this was why I didn't want to play with these dumb bitches. I didn't want to talk to them about what happened to me, about why I did what I did.

    "Where's the booze?" I asked, preparing to stand up and get away from the memories that refused to leave my mind.

    Everleigh's eyebrows rose. "You have to answer the question."

    "Do I? Because frankly, I don't think that it's any of your business," I told her.

    "It's a simple question," Everleigh argued.

    "It doesn't matter how easy the question is!" I snapped, the anger blooming within me, the nasty images appearing in my head. No, no, no. No! "This isn't any of your business, bitch, so get out of my way."

    Everleigh rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Abby, what can't you ju-"

    Bren interrupted her. "Stop, Ev, just stop."

    Her eyes narrowed. "Bren-"

    "She asked you to stop," Bren insisted. "Give her some space. She's right; this isn't any of your business."

    Silence.

    "Whatever," Everleigh said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She went to the bar, popping a soda can out of the mini fridge.

     The other two girls started chatting again, friendly once more. I ignored them, wishing and praying that I could leave.

    "You okay?" Bren asked me, quietly, not even looking at me. Her eyes were more focused on her friends, her ears probably on their conversation. She didn’t care . . . although; it wasn’t like I didn’t already know that. I couldn’t expect her to change.

    "Fine," I muttered. "Where's the booze?"

    Bren sighed, glancing at me, distastefully. "Seriously, Abby, are you okay? I wouldn't want you to do anything you'd regret."

    My eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

    She blushed. "Don't be like that, Abby. I just don't want you to-"

     "You think I'm so sensitive that I would kill myself here?" I demanded. "You don't know me, Bren, don't pretend like you do."

    "Abby-"

     "No! Don't be like this, Bren; don't act like you know me or whatever." I toll a deep breath. "Leave me alone, alright? Isn't that what you're planning to do anyways?"

    "I just want to make sure you're alright-"

     "Yeah, well, you didn't seem to think that when I was in the hospital," I hissed. "Or when you're sleeping with Austin, even after everything you knew he did to me."

     Silence.

    I couldn’t focus on the noise –or rather, lack of it- that echoed throughout the room, all I could see was Bren. Her green-gray eyes peered into mine, as if searching for something. But what could she be searching for? She knew everything, she had started everything.

    "I . . . I didn't know, Abby.”

    "Don't lie, we both know that you did," I hissed. "I came to you after he had done it, terrified and needing you. And what did you do? You slept with him!"

    Silence.

    I gulped, feeling the memories starting to cloud my mind. I saw him . . . the blood . . . the hammer . . . oh, goodness, a wave of nausea was rolling through me. Was I going to throw up? If I did, it at least had to be all over Bren. That bitch deserved to be barfed on.

    Bren took a deep breath. "I swear, Abby, I didn't know who he was-"

     "I don't care that you didn't know! You still did, you still did . . . that hurts like nothing else," I murmured.  I could feel tears pricking the back of my eyes uncomfortably and I wiped them, like the pathetic baby I was. They didn't get to see this side of me, no one deserved it. Especially after everything I gave it to Austin . . . I give it to him and he broke me.

    She gulped.  And then, Bren admitted something I never expected her to say.

    "I'm a lesbian."

    Silence.

    And then I wasn't the only one speaking.

    The girl speaking was the only one whom I didn’t have a name for. She was tall, like an Amazonian, with hair as pale as starlight falling down her back and eyes as dark as the night sky. She was all angles, her cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood, with a milky complexion and thin pink lips pulled into a grimace. She wore a baggy tee-shirt and jeans, the most casual of all the girls.

    She spoke in a stiletto voice. “Pardon?”

    Wow, real clever! Obviously, only Bren’s friends were capable of managing this level of stupid. Why did Mom force me to suffer through this again?

    Bren took a deep breath. “Well, more like bisexual. I just . . . I didn’t want anyone to know. You know how hard it’s for people like me, how mean people can be about other’s sexuality. And I didn’t want to deal with that, and I still really don’t. But, Abby, you need to know.”

    I scowled, automatically puzzled. “Why the hell do I care?”

    She sighed again. “When I . . . got with Austin, I was going through a hard time. I had told my mom a bit about what I was going through with my sexuality. And, to put it simply, she didn’t understand. She’s gotten better since then, but at the time there was nothing. So when things happened between Austin and I, it had been just after that! He didn’t tell me his name and I didn’t tell him mine; I had never even seen a picture of him, Abby! I swear to God I didn’t know-“

    “What are you two talking about?” Everleigh demanded.

    Jolie slapped her shoulder. “Obviously this isn’t our business.”

    The third girl shrugged. “I still want to know.”

    Bren gulped. “Jolie’s right, this is private. I can’t tell yo-“

    “No,” I snapped. “You told them about the most personal thing in my life. Telling them about what led up to it . . . well, fine. Please. Do it.”

    She blushed. “Abby-“

    “I insist,” I hissed.

    “Yeah,” the third girl agreed. “Do what Abby said.”

    “Mars,” Jolie snapped. “Can you please be more mature about th-“

    Mars? Of course Bren was friends with someone named Mars.

    “Tell us,” Everleigh interrupted, looking at Bren straight in the eye, demanding her with a force that must’ve been intimidating for the weak-minded Bren.

    Bren gulped. “Fine, but I know I’ll hate myself forever. But-“

    Liar, I thought.

    “-Abby started seeing this guy Austin in grade nine. I never met him, but apparently they’re crazy for each other and everything was really great, they dated through grade ten and into eleventh. That’s when disaster struck.” Bren glanced at me, as if asking for permission; the other girls looked at me expectedly.

    “Go ahead,” I snarled. “I don’t care.”

    Bren sighed. “It happened a little more than six months ago. I was just at home, doing whatever, when Abby called me. She was . . . upset, hysterical really, needing my help-“

    Boy was I ever stupid, I thought.

    “So I went over to her house and . . . everything was a real mess. Abby was pretty beaten up; she was wearing bloody clothe, everything in her room was thrown around, there was blood everywhere-“

    “Don’t be so dramatic,” I snapped.

    Her eyebrows rose. “Do you want me to stop?”

    “No, these dumb bitches should know exactly why everything happened, since you told them,” I insisted. “But you at least need to be honest, you backstabbing bitch.”

    She looked like she was about to argue my latest nickname for her, before she bit her lip and shook her head. “Anyways, she was hurt, so I asked her what had happened. Basically, Austin had wanted to . . . take things to the next level. When Abby refused, he bea-beat her u-up and for-forced him-hims-himself o-on her.”

    I closed my eyes, refusing to look at the other girls when Bren’s words reached their ears. Unfortunately, images of Austin flashed across my mind. The wicked gleam in his eyes, the sneer of his lips, the fierce bundle of his fists, the hammer as it struck . . .  why can’t he leave me alone?

    “I wanted to go to the authorities,” Bren breathed. “She looked so . . . awful, I didn’t even know if she was okay. But she insisted, so we didn’t. I helped her clean the room and herself up, and she promised me that nothing of this sort would ever happen again. I just believed her, I guess, I had other problems to focus on once I knew she was going to be alright.”

    “Say goodbye,” he whispered, his voice sending shivers up my spine. Not that he could tell, with the trembles that were already sending me into overdrive.

    Tears pooled around my nostrils and fell into my lips, the overly evident flavour of salt erupting across my tongue. I could barely breathe, each breath coming out quickly and shallowly. “Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry . . .”

    “No more pretty music for you,” he murmured. “You’ll be mine forever, Abby. No more Mozart or Beethoven for you, just me forever.”

    He swung the hammer in his fingers, twirling again and again.

    “So I went home and a few days went by and . . . I was really struggling with my sexuality, at this point. I decided to speak with my mom about this, because I figured she would be supportive. But she was anything but, she didn’t understand.”

    “I-it was ju-just a mis-mis-misunderstanding,” I insisted, stuttering over my words, so terrified I could barely contain it.

    He shook his head, trailing his finger down my face, smudging the tears into my skin. It took all that I had within me not to flinch under his touch, because I could feel darkness oozing off him. “Don’t you understand that you’re mine? Abby, that’s all you’ll ever be.”

    “Do-don’t hu-h-hurt me,” I pleaded, unable to hide the fear from him. The tears continued to flow and I wanted to push him away from me, but I didn’t have the strength.

    Austin’s eyes widened, big and brown and chocolate. Just how I remembered them, just how I loved. Tender affection spread through them and I sighed; hell, I laughed! Because I was going to be alright. It was just a . . . phase. He could get help. He would be okay and so would I.  Most importantly, we would be together.

    “So I went . . . out. I don’t really remember where out is, just that I was there. And I saw him there. He was handsome; tall and dark, just the way I liked them. We hit it off, we’re flirting and talking and everything seemed perfect. I was so frustrated because I was having all of these weird feelings for girls that I was also having for boys and I wanted –hell, I needed- to feel normal. So I slept with him.”

    “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, caressing my cheek.

    But then I realized I knew that look. That was the look he wore in here, in my bedroom, when he touched me. It was loving, in a lusting sort of way. He needed me, but not the real me, but the physical me that fulfilled his sexual desires. He didn’t believe he was hurting me, but in reality all he had done was anything but.

    “No,” I begged.

    “No, what?” He demanded. “I’m only trying to help.”

    “I need my music!”

    “And that’s when I found out he was Austin, that he was . . . Abby’s abusive boyfriend. I hadn’t known before then, or after, until Abby confronted me. Because Austin told her about me.”

    “Why have music when you can have me?”

    “It’s my life,” I insisted.

    “Life?” He questioned. “And what am I?”

    “M-my . . . boyfriend,” I concluded.

    “Not your life?”

    “It’s not like I’m yours!” I hissed. “You slept with Bren.”

    “She didn’t want to see me ever again; she wanted me to stay as far away as possible. She was betrayed, she was angry, she was sad . . . I tried to tell her she should break up with him. Because not only had he forced himself on her, but he had cheated on her with me.  She wasn’t thinking clearly though, she thought I was trying to steal him permanently from her.”

    His eyes hardened. “What did you say to me?”

    I automatically knew I said the wrong thing. Tears pricked the back of my eyes and I crawled away from him, hoping to get as far away from him. He growled, fierce and animalistic, leaping forward on his hands and knees onto the bed. He hovered on top of me, holding me down by my wrists.

    “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

    Austin took a deep breath. “This is for the best.”

    My eyes widened because I knew what he was going to do. He couldn’t, though! No, no, no. This wasn’t happening; he wasn’t just going to . . .

    “And she continued to see him. Austin continued to hurt her, from what I could tell, watching on from the distance. I didn’t know if I should go to the authorities, or parents, or . . . anything. She was acting oddly, clearly on edge from what he was doing to her.”

    Boom.

    I screamed.

     “Then that day came, the darkest one. I remember being shaken away by my mother at maybe three in the morning, telling me that we needed to get to the hospital. Because it was Abby, because she might die, because we needed to be scared. Austin had hurt her really badly.”

    He brought the hammer up again, shifting my hand again. I couldn’t stop screaming, the pain bursting through my body in a way that I had never perceived possible. I glanced down at my pinkie, seeing a bloody glob that hadn’t been there before. I wanted to barf.

    Austin pulled it down.

    I screamed.

    “Her parents had been on a date that night, so the house had been empty. The neighbours had heard her screaming, but they had thought that Abby and her cute little boyfriend were watching a horror movie too loud. Because the screams . . . they had become inhumane.”

    And again.

    “Basically, he had been doing his usual thing. At-attacked her, for-forced himself on her . . . and then, for whatever reason, he br-broke Abby’s fingers. With a-a hammer.”

    And again.

    “He left her with ten broken fingers, beaten and raped. She was alone in the house for . . . hours, probably. In so much pain I can’t even imagine it.”

    And again.

    “She was probably terrified, the poor creature . . . somehow, she found a knife. Abby slit her wrists, really badly. And she sat there, for a very long time, bleeding out. When her parents found her, she was almost dead, just barely alive.”

    And then he was gone.

    But everything hurt, including the gap in my heart he had left.

    And I just wanted to sleep, I thought, as I sobbed. But I knew I couldn’t sleep, not in my condition, not with everything Austin had done . . . sleep.

    I could sleep forever.

    I knew how.

    “Thankfully, she lived. And here we’re now.”

    Maybe dying wouldn’t hurt, because I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t be here anymore, with this scary and horrible Austin who didn’t know how to love me. Who wasn’t the Austin I remembered, by a monster wearing his face, a beautiful mask.

    The penknife was hidden in one of my drawers.

    Pain clogged my mind as I pull the drawer open, dragging the knife out from among its contents. My fingers . . . there was blood everywhere . . . nothing would fix this. And with those words came a pain that was worse than the physical one, because I would never be able to play the piano again. Not my fingers like this. And that was my life, my music.

    Only I could fix this. I smiled, a grim smile with no amusement, a hallow one.

     I pulled the knife against my wrists, slashing and letting my life drip down my fingers, flowing so fast most would worry. But no pain seemed to reach me, only the knowledge of bliss that would soon find me. Of the eternal sleep I was about to find. . . .

    Goodnight.

    “Abby, you okay?”

    My eyes opened.

    Austin was gone, so was my room and the blood and my fingers . . . well, not really my fingers. Although they’re still really misshapen and unable to move. He had made sure I would be unable to play the piano for the rest of eternity.

    “Abby?” Bren repeated. “You okay?”

    “Fine,” I mumbled. “Where’s the booze?”

    I tried to stand up, to find the burning drink which gave me ignorant bliss, but the memories tainted my mind and I was unable to stand. My knees wobbled and I collapsed back onto the couch, the quivering overtaking me, I shook as if I were in the middle of my own individual earthquake.

    “You’re not okay,” Bren insisted.

    “No shit, Sherlock,” Everleigh sneered.

    “What do we do?” Jolie demanded.

    “Go away,” I mumbled, whipping my arms violently away from me, hoping and praying that they’d understand that it meant I didn’t want them.

    Like a lost puppy, arms came back to me. A slender set of arms curled tightly around my waist, holding me to a big-breasted torso, which was quite awkward for me. I continued to attack, not wanting the embrace, wanting to be alone and drinking in my vulnerable moment.

    “It’s okay,” a stiletto voice murmured, Mars.

    “Go away,” I repeated, hissing.

    Mars gulped. “You’re going to be okay, Abby.”

    I squirmed in her grip, trying to get away. She had an iron grip on my body, holding me so tightly I was struggling to breathe somewhat. Okay, that was being dramatic. Either way, she was holding me and I couldn’t get away and it was making me uncomfortable.

    But most of all, it was making me cry.

    Tears fell down my cheeks, the sobs stealing my breath so they came out shallow and uneven. I trembled into Mars body and she rubbed my shoulders, trying to assure me with her touch, regardless of the fact that she was a stranger.

    Chocolate brown eyes, once so innocent and beautiful, filled my mind and turned vicious as he swung and swung and swung . . .

    Mars shifted me in her arms, breaking the image in my mind. And for whatever reason I curled up in this stranger’s arms, allowing her to pull me into her lap and tuck my head under her chin, while her fingers ran through my hair. I was like a child and I liked it; because children didn’t have to suffer like this, and if they did, they weren’t really children anymore.

    “Life is a giant leap of faith. We jump and then we just have to hope that we land somewhere we want to be, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes, we aren’t caught. Sometimes, we keep on falling. Sometimes, we have a crash landing. But we have to keep on fighting because . . . sometimes we’re allowed a second jump,” Mars whispered, so quiet I doubted the others girls heard her. “That boy was awful to you, but I promise you that he was your first jump and you’re lucky enough to still have another. Don’t walk away from it, run at it! Because, I vow, we’ll all be here to catch you when you fall.”

    Her words trailed through my mind, webbing along throughout my thoughts. When I had been in the hospital, I heard plenty of profound stories about the meaning of life, because those who were dying thought they knew the truth behind it. But hearing it from someone who seemed so . . . stupid, to be honest, was like a breath of fresh air after being stuck inside all day. Because I had heard it again and again, yet here was the same thing again in a different scenario, and suddenly I couldn’t get enough of it.

    I liked this Mars girl.

    She gulped; I could feel the lump slide down her throat, before she spoke. “When I was ten, my mom died. She had been sick for years, terminal cancer you see, so I spent a lot of my childhood in the hospital. To a lot of people, it sounds sad. But for me, I think it’s the most important thing that has ever happened to me. Because I met all of these people, people from all walks of life, of different varieties . . . and they taught me about how life and love hurt, but they always continued, so I had to as well. And when my mom died, I was able to accept it and moved on, regardless of how much it hurt because I knew I had to if I wanted to survive. And, Abby, I can tell by just looking at you that you’re so much stronger than me, if sadder. So you’ll get through this, because you have to.”

    And then I was crying again, because here was this girl who knew so much even though she seemed like she knew so little. Because there was life in all of us, so all of us had a different reasoning to why that was and what it was about. Mars’s, though . . . hers was so ordinary, yet it was wise, because I could feel how deeply she meant her words.

    Suddenly, someone coughed.

    I blinked, breaking out of the serious moment I had with Mars. I found myself looking at Jolie, who had coughed. Or rather, hiccupped, because tears were streaming down her face. Bren was in an identical state. But Everleigh . . . her expression was unreadable.

    I guess all the girls had been listening. Well, maybe not Everleigh.

    Abruptly, Jolie announced, “I had an abortion last month.”

    Everyone turned to look at her, eyes wide, shock-ridden. To be honest, I couldn’t really blame them. I didn’t know all of these girls too well, but from what I did, Jolie seemed to least likely to . . . be in that predicament. Bren I could see –if she wasn’t a lesbian or whatever she is- Mars I could see and Everleigh I could definitely see. But Jolie seemed to have a gentler demeanour that just didn’t make me think of her like that.

    She bit her lip. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I started getting the bump. Most people know within the first month or two, considering the change in behaviour and the lack of a certain monthly gift, but I had no idea. I had never been a regular, organized person, in any department. But once I got the bump, I started seeing all the things align, and I started feeling this weird fluttering inside me and . . . I knew, oh goodness, I knew. And I knew what I was going to do to it.”

   Tears fell down her cheeks, rolling down her skin and pooling in the corners of her lips. She quivered, shaking as she spoke, but no one dared touched her. It was because of her eyes . . . she cried and shook, yet her eyes were empty, lifeless. Like a ghost watching on life below. And none of us wanted it to rub off on us.

    “Luke-“

    I looked up at Mars, who mouthed “boyfriend” as Jolie spoke.

    “-didn’t know about the baby. I knew if I told him, he would convince me to keep it. No matter what he did; if he got mad, or sad, or happy, I knew I would keep the baby if I told him about it. So I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone, because I was scared about what I’d do. I went to a doctor and confirmed the pregnancy, and within the week I found myself at an abortion clinic.”

    She fell silent, staring at her hands, for a moment. Before continuing, finally an emotion lighting her eyes, determination.

    “I filled out the proper paper work and I was prepared for the procedure . . . and that’s when I knew. I didn’t want to lose it. Because it wasn’t an it. I was a mother now, and this was my child, stirring within me. I had to protect my baby, even from myself. And just as I built up to tell the doctor I didn’t want to do this anymore, a nurse rushed in. They had run some tests, just to check on some things that were vital for the procedure and . . . and that’s when they told me It had died.”

    The way she said it, now It was a title, a name. The name Jolie gave her dead child because she couldn’t bear to give It a real one, so It was all It would get.

   Mars let me go, giving me a knowing glance, and went to Jolie. Mars wrapped her arms around her, but nothing changed in Jolie; she was silent, unmoving, dead in the eyes.

    “I killed my baby.”

    Abruptly, Jolie burst into tears again, her eyes burning with sadness. Mars held her tighter as the sobs racked her body, as she cried for her dead baby, Mars promising her that it wasn’t her fault. And we all watched her sadness, and I felt grateful for her. Because at least she still felt something. I hadn’t felt anything after Austin touched me, not until now.

    After Jolie calmed down, we all found ourselves turning towards Everleigh, expectedly. No words were spoken between us, but we waited for the words we thought would come. But the slutty girl remained silent, watching us, puzzlement shaping her features.

    “Why are you looking at me like that?” She demanded.

    “Well . . . “ Bren trailed off, struggling to explain. “Everyone else shared something personal. We all just thought that maybe-”

    “I’d want to join in?” Everleigh interrupted, snorting. “Please, why would I?”

    Jolie sighed. “We all just shared the deepest, most personal things in our lives. It doesn’t have to be some dark secret, Ev, but please . . . let us know you take this seriously. Tell us something about yourself, anything, to show us we can trust you with this.”

    She rolled her eyes, glancing at her nails. “I have nothing to tell, my life is perfect, seeing as I have everything. My parents are rich, so they provide me with everything and beyond that I need. Sure . . . they’re never home. And, okay, maybe when they’re home they never want to talk to me. But, whatever, it’s not like I wanted to talk to them anyways, right? And maybe, my dad is sleeping with his secretary and maybe I’m the only who knows. Maybe he’s threatened to kill me if I tell anyone. But, I have everything. My life is perfect. I have nothing to complain about. So why don’t you little whiners go back to your whining and leave me the fuck alone?!”

    Everyone blinked, shocked at her confession. Mainly because she had made one, but because of what she had said. Everleigh didn’t even look up from her nails, just continued glancing at them.

    Silence.

    “What an ass hat,” I announced.

    Everyone looked at me.

    Everleigh’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

    “He should take his head out of his ass, it’s not a hat,” I explained.

    And suddenly everyone was laughing, including Everleigh. But at the same time, tears were running down her cake-face cheeks, causing the makeup to run. Although, surprisingly, she didn’t seem to care.

    “That Austin dude is an ass hat,” Everleigh retorted. “What’s his last name?”

    “Patterson,” I informed her, blocking the dark thoughts as well as I could.

    Bren’s hand slid into mine, our fingers tangling. I smiled at her, gratefully.

   Everleigh’s eyes widened. “He lives in Westbrook, right?”

    I nodded, puzzled.

    Suddenly, she grinned. “So do I. And I so happened to have all the security clearance to get into the Westbrook neighbourhood. . .”

    I was still confused.

    But everyone else was grinning.

    “What?” I demanded.

    “We’re going to go egg his house,” Mars informed me.

*

    And so we did.

    It was the middle of the night. The velvety sheet of sky above us, glittered with stars and a moon that washed the color from the world. But, yet, I had never felt more alive as I chucked eggs and rolls of toilet papers at Austin Patterson’s house, surrounded by the first friends I had in months.

   The lights were off since they’re probably sleeping, but they never turned on. Maybe they’re out of the house, on vacation or something, but no one seemed to notice as the house was adorned by lines of sanitary and dairy products. This only made it that much better.

    This was what I needed, in so many ways. After everything Austin had done to me, after every way he had ruined my life, doing this petty thing helped me release some of the negativity that had built up in my life due to him. Especially since he hadn’t suffered from the consequences of his actions. This was revenge . . . yet it was also me moving on.

    Around me, I had friends. All of my friends had left me as soon as I entered the hospital, but now I had new ones, ones who gave me hope for a better future. Who reminded me that we’re all unfinished puzzles, waiting to be finished, and they we’re helping me become complete.

    The earth and how it came to be is a . . . phenomenon. But what’s more of a phenomenon than that is us, the human race. Because of people like Bren and Jolie and Mars and Everleigh. Like me. Because we’re like the earth, we’ve gone through all these struggles and yet we’re still alive.

    We’re the phenomenon.

    I needed to remember that, because I knew the next few months would be hard. Because to get better, I would need to move on from Austin, and every time I thought of him I literally wanted to die. To recover, I needed this. To understand the truth about us all. Yes, I thought while hiding a smile, we’re the phenomenon.

    Helen Keller once said that “Life is either a great adventure or it’s nothing,” and she’s right, but in a different way than I had first thought. Helen Keller had survived being deaf and blind, and had even learned to read, write and talk along the way. She had started out with nothing and made a life for herself, she had created her own adventure. So if she can, why can’t I? And all the other phenomenon’s for that matter?

    As Peter Pan, or rather J.M. Berrie, once said, "Death is but the next adventure." Meaning death is the next adventure, so I had a whole other one here to live out before I was ready to encounter the next one.  

    So I chose to live. 

    And I succeeded.

    Because no one can fail in life.