I hate Saturdays. Every week they come around and every week I'm stuck wondering

'why?'

Today is particularly bad though, as my parents are home. My mother usually works on the Saturdays but being Labour Day weekend, she gets to spend it at home. I know she also wishes she is at work today.

Then there is my father, who spends his days of freedom from teaching either fishing or at the home hardware store, buying things for his never finished garden. But because Mumma is home, he feels the need to stay home with her and envelop himself in the sadness.

Then there is me, in bed, ignoring the dim daylight filtering through my blinds and the light rain pattering on the roof so that I can spend a few more minutes under the covers. Like my parents, I am left with the emptiness that is much worse at this time of the week.

Before I get in too much of a hole I put on my cd, made specifically to take my mind off it. The mellifluous sounds of the instrumental track fill my shoebox room and I close my eyes once again.

When I reopen them it is just after lunch, according to the analogue clock hanging on my pale blue walls. There is only four hours until my friends will be here to get ready for the party; meaning four whole hours to keep myself busy.

I flick the covers off my body and sit up, taking my hair out of the two plaits that hang over my shoulders, only to redo them. It takes me a few minutes to do this though, as my dark hair has grown to my bellybutton.

Uncrossing my legs I swing them over the side of my bed to stand, only to be met with a wall a few inches from my face. At least there is room to stand on this side. I shuffle over to the door at the foot of my bed and squeeze through, closing it softly behind me.

The bathroom is my next destination and I tiptoe to the end of the hall to get there, not to disturb my parent's conversation coming from the kitchen. I automatically block out their chatter, not that there is much of it anyway.

I sigh at the reminder and push through the bathroom door. Silence is the harshest reminder of all, meaning that my silence must be deafening to my parents.

No. I can't think of this right now. I can't afford to lose my cool today.

I feel my hand on the cool metal handle, pulling it closed to secure me in the room. There is a click when it latches closed and a snap when I flick the lock.

The bathroom is bigger than my room, along with the rest of the rooms in this almost-mansion. The entirety of the floor is covered tiled in a sandy colour while the walls contrast it with a dark tile.

I move across to the marble counter and run the water in the sink, cupping my hands under the tap to splash water on my face, before drying it with the hand towel. My eyes catch the reflection in the mirror, a bit of water I missed dripping off my chin.

My green eyes are wide with dark hollows underneath them. My cheekbones are becoming more prominent as the weeks wear on and they are framed by my long, dark hair. I look for a moment too long until I have to shudder away from my appearance. Sometimes I scare myself when I look in the mirror.

At least I'm not the only one in my family who looks so run down. After I have my shower I make my way to the kitchen, my parents both sitting there mirroring me. My mother is becoming frail, as if her bones could snap at any one moment. Her expression is that of heartbreak, masked by a false smile I am becoming accustomed to. However the most dominant feature that catches my eyes is the scar that runs from the corner of her eye to her jaw, cutting across her previously unflawed face.

My father is different though. As he sits at the marble bench with an empty plate in front of him, he has his lips pressed into the constant straight line. In many ways I admire him; he doesn't try to deny the facts. He is the only one in this house that has accepted what happened and is trying to make progress.

"Good morning, honey," Mumma says with a false tone, sipping at her cup of tea before glancing to her watch. "Well, it's not morning anymore, is it?" She tries to laugh but it comes out as a breathy, sad sound. I haven't heard her real laugh in so long.

My father beside her looks up to me with soft grey eyes and a nod of greeting. "Would you like some lunch?"

I nod in acceptance of his offer and slide into the stool opposing them. Without further words, Pappa gets up and puts some raisin bread in the toaster. I want to smile at that, as he knows it's one of the only things I can eat.

"You've got this party tonight, haven't you darling?" My mother asks, not leaving any room for silence. "Are you excited? I think you're going to have a ball."

I shrug in response, not planning on telling her that I am only going there to escape the house. I'm not the type of girl that likes partying, despite being almost eighteen and almost allowed to drink. I don't like the loud music and the dancing, and in most circumstances, the drugs. I've never taken any, but at all the parties I'm invited to they have them. I'm shocked the police haven't discovered us yet.

"Oh! Are you going to wear that purple dress that I got you, oh, when was it? Last week?" Mumma's voice pipes up again as the toaster beeps.

I'm not sure if she knows but that is the only dress I own that is suitable for a party. Oh well, I have never been the favourite. She never has and never will pay much attention to me. I find myself nodding in response.

"Here you are," Pappa says as he hands me my raisin toast, spread to the edges with butter. I give him my best attempt at a smile, noting the grey tinge his hair is starting to take.

"Are you going to do anything until the party?" My mother asks. I know she won't stop questioning me until I leave, and then her questions will will turn to Pappa. Which is exactly the reason Pappa won't leave her alone. She can't cope with no one to talk to.

However it is Pappa's job to do that today, not mine. I take another two bites of my toast after shrugging - my lame response - before retreating to my room. It takes me a few minutes to get there and when I do I close the door behind me.

I now have two options. Either I can crawl back into the bed that takes up two thirds of my room or I can go exploring in one of the many spare rooms in this place.

The clock ends up making my decision for me. It's 1pm, meaning three hours until my friends arrive. Also meaning three hours to occupy myself. With that in mind I shove open my door and pad down the hall, playing with my plaits in the process.

My hallway feels deserted, causing my feet to slow down. The white walls create the illusion of never ending while the deep red carpet feels scratchy on my bare feet. It's as if I'm wandering the halls of an abandoned, unfamiliar hotel, where only five doors on this level appear.

Two of them I'm familiar with; my bedroom and the bathroom. One of them, halfway along the enduring hall, is one I've never dared go in, from the fear that I will break a third time. So I increase my speed as I pass the abandoned room and don't slow until I reach the end of the hall.

There are two doors ahead of me, both in the rich mahogany that all other woodwork is made from in this house. Brass door handles are encompassed within the wood and I feel myself going for the one on the left, pushing it open.

It's the study, as I discovered when I was young. We used to play in here all the time, climbing on the swivel chair and exploring the many cupboards, wondering when we would ever use this room. Neither of our parents worked at home and when they did, it would be at the kitchen counter.

Of course things have changed now and the desk is filled with papers a mile high, but I can just remember running around here as a five year old.

While caught up in my thoughts I have wandered over to the cupboard I use to hide in when playing hide and go seek. I run my hand along the mahogany and end up sliding the door open.

It hasn't changed at all, and I'm caught with a distinct feeling of nostalgia. I wish I could be five years old again, hiding from whoever was seeking me out. Everything used to be so simple.

Sighing, I look at myself in the reflection of the mirror that covers the back of the wardrobe. I turn from side to side, tugging at my shorts and singlet so that they will sit right. They don't and won't, no matter how much I fiddle. So instead of pulling my singlet to the side, I lift it up so that I can see my stomach.

Like the rest of my body, the skin is olive with bones nearing the surface. It is getting to the stage where my ribs will soon become evident through my skin and my hipbones much the same.

I struggle for breath and I grip the post in the cupboard for support, my hand squeezing it so hard my knuckles are turning white. I let my top slide free of my hand to cover my stomach once again, and then I slide to the ground.

My knees instinctively slide up and I hug them tight to my chest, burying my head in them as the tears start flowing. I was doing so well; it had been two weeks since I'd last fallen apart. I guess my brain thinks it's time for me to do it again, so I stay gripping my knees to my chest, gasping for breaths at the ache in my chest, hating the person I have become.