“When people hurt you over and over think of them like sandpaper. They may scratch and hurt you a bit, but in the end, you end up polished and they end up useless. ”

-Chris Colfer

I’ve been betrayed before. It’s not a nice feeling. The burning feeling in my throat is not great either. What I’m doing now is to stop myself from feeling all along.

I know how it goes. I get drunk, and then I can’t keep it in my stomach, so I throw up. I sober up enough to land myself in my bed. I wake up in the morning with a terrible hangover and sleep all through Sunday. It’s been like this ever since I started drinking.

It may sound like I drink every other day, but I don’t. I only drink to suppress whatever I’m feeling. Sometimes, I don’t feel. Those days, I don’t need a drink.

Today, I am feeling. I’m feeling a lot more than I want to feel. So here I am, drinking and looking for toilets so I can throw up later.

The music blasts through the whole room, extraordinarily loud. The teens around the room are louder. This is the Carlson household. The Carlson brothers are pretty popular in school, the older one being more popular than the younger. The younger one is in the same grade as me. I search around in my brain for his name.

I can’t seem to remember.

I had no plan to come to this party. I never have plans to go to any parties. I am not a big party lover. But once in a while, I drop in on one or two, just to experience it and to see if I’m missing out on something revolutionary happening among the kids my age. Turns out, revolutionary things do happen. At the last party I went to, a few people were trying to make model airplanes with cards and corkscrews.

Nothing turns out really well during a party. Not in my case at least.

The alcohol burns in my throat as I take another sip. I had an empty stomach when I came here. Mom was calling me for dinner. I said I had already had snacks and was full. She believed it and gave up on forcing me to have dinner with her and my family.

The truth is I felt so overwhelmed with my feelings that I couldn’t think of going downstairs and facing my family with a smiley face. It seemed impossible. So I fled.

There’s a window in my bedroom that opens to the roof. From the roof, I take advantage of the pipes that run straight down to the ground. To make it easier, there’s also a palm tree standing right beside the corner that helps me get down, although it’s hard to get up. It’s always hard to get up.

From my muddled point of view I can see teens mashed up against one another on the couches. Some are playing stupid games to entertain themselves, like Truth or Dare, cards, beer pong, and anything they made up themselves. The whole room is illuminated by blue and purple lights, giving it some sort of weird, magical feel.

I almost feel guilty fooling mom like that. I have a very nice family. They are honest, happy people. Their world is colorful and simple. You do your job, earn your money and food, eat, sleep, entertain yourself, engage with people, make friends, laugh, live.

Sometimes, I think, What is wrong with me? Why isn’t my world like theirs?

I’ve tried to figure out the reasons. It’s not like I have some horrible disease, and I’m not a damsel in distress. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me, which is exactly what is wrong with me.

Some days, I am completely fine. I’m a normal soon to be seventeen-year-old teenage girl. I have dreams, I have friends, I go school, and I am busy. I have my family. I engage with them. I laugh, make jokes, make the people around me laugh. I feel like everything is possible. I feel like life is beautiful.

But some days, I don’t.

My bad days interfere with everything in my life. I feel like I’m asleep, like I’m not where I am. I’m out of everyone’s reach. I do what I am supposed to do, like a robot. I can't seem to eat, to sleep, to engage myself with anyone or anything. I don’t have any focus. I’m just gone.

I call them spiral days. They usually happen once every week, sometimes twice a week. Sometimes, the spiral days stay for a single day. Other times, they linger, and I seem to be gone for days.

Then I suddenly wake up, and I’m back. I’m fine, and nothing is wrong with me.

My family doesn’t have any idea about my spiral days. I made sure of it. They don’t deserve to have their perfect life tumble out of control because of me. I am a variable that cannot change in their equation. If I let them see what’s been going on, the equation will go extremely wrong. It will become unsolvable. Nobody wants that.

So, I hide myself in my spiral days. I’ve been doing it for six months, and I have been pretty successful. Nobody in my family has any idea. It gets hard, but all I need to do is force a smile on my face. When I can’t, I don’t. They chalk it up to my being a hormonal teenager.

I take another gulp of my drink. It’s getting harder to keep it down in my stomach. I walk around cautiously. There is no unoccupied toilet on this floor. I can see people lining up in front of them, so I’ll have to go upstairs. I better get moving.

I head upstairs in a hurry. The house is a nice, big modern building, painted in a combination of beige and white. My foot slides up the polished wooden staircase frame. As I make it upstairs, my stomach lurches. Oh great, not in the hallway. I can’t do it in the hallway.

Quick, quick.

I look for a room with a washroom. If I’m not wrong, one of these rooms should have an ensuite bathroom in them. I try to open the door to one, but it’s locked. God damn it, I will throw up in the hallway.

I cover my mouth and try to breathe while continuing to search for rooms. I try the next room. A door opens. I’m close to throwing up, so I stumble and reach for the washroom door.

I lift the toilet seat and throw up. All that comes out are the drinks I consumed a little while ago. Other than that, I have an empty stomach, but the lurching doesn’t stop and my stomach burns while it tries to empty itself. I hug the seat and try to get something out.

My forehead gets slick with sweat. I collapse down on the floor. It was actually nice. Drinking, I mean. I didn't get drunk.

It’s hot in here. They should get AC in the washroom.

“What the hell!” someone exclaims. I look up.

It’s one of the Carlson brothers. The one that’s in my grade. He has the signature Carlson dirty blonde hair, curled around the edges and unruly. He has a long nose and a thin set of lips. His brown brows are knitted together.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks. I still can’t remember his name.

As if he can’t see what I am doing here. I just puked. My ears are ringing and my stomach is still lurching. I have a foul taste in my mouth. I stink.

“You are not Owen,” I say instantly.

Owen Carlson is our golden boy. He is not only popular for his amazing looks, but also his manners. He has the same dirty blonde hair, dazzling smile, nice sea-green eyes, and great body that girls want to worship. Owen is charming, both to teachers and students. He is smart, he is sexy, and he is friendly. There is not one person in the school who doesn’t like Owen. When he walks down the hallway, people kiss the floor where he steps. Okay, that might be exaggerating.

But Owen is a senior. I share AP classes with him and I know the effect he has on people. The girls are in love with him. Boys who go that way are also in love with him. The others want to be him or be friends with him. He is super likable.

My straight out confession doesn’t improve the guy’s mood. It only makes it worse. He scowls.

“I don't remember your name, but I’m trying,” I tell him, hugging my stomach, though I don’t think I will vomit again. Everything that was supposed to get out already did.

“Get. Out,” The guy demands.

“It’s really hard to remember your name. Do you know why I remember your brother’s name? Because it’s Owen. It rhymes with mine. Gwen, Owen. Gwen, Owen,” I say and then double over in laughter.

“You’re not nice. Owen is nice. I am sure your brother would have helped if I puked in his washroom,” I tell him.

If the guy was annoyed before, now he is straight up furious. His face is getting red and he clenches his hands into fists.

Oh damn, I think I hit a nerve there.

“If he’s so nice, why didn’t you puke in his washroom?” he asks with disgust on his face.

“You absolutely hate your brother,” I state.

I see his face morph into an expression of surprise. He knows that he hates his brother, but nobody has ever said it to his face, he’s surprised that I said it out loud. He’s admitting the truth to himself. The truth, that he knew all along.

The younger Carlson hates Owen Carlson. Great discovery I made today. I laugh again.

“You don’t like your brother at all. Why? You guys have history? Did he break your toy? Or was it a girl? He stole your girlfriend,” I say and his eyes go wide. “What did he do?”

He takes a step towards me. Then he senses the foul smell and steps back. “You talk way too much. Why haven’t you flushed?”

He covers his nose.

I snort. “It’s actually the opposite. I am quiet most of the time. So tell me, what did your brother do to deserve your hatred?”

I stand up and wipe my hands on my denim. I’m wearing a black hoodie and a pair of denim pants with my sneakers. I came here underdressed, not dressed up enough for the famous Carlson party at all, since I fled wearing the clothes I was wearing at home. I just put on the pants and shoes before leaving.

I am noticing them now because Something Carlson is looking at them too. He must be thinking I’m a weirdo. I have to clear that up.

“Look, Something Carlson,” I say, and he looks up at me. “No, I didn't have a bad break-up. No, I am not out of my mind. No, I am not depressed. No, I don't take drugs. I fled from my house to come to this party. I forgot to wear the appropriate attire. Sorry for that. ”

Something Carlson blinks like he’s trying to understand if he’s dreaming or if I’m actually for real.

“Hey, I’ll keep calling you Something Carlson until I can remember your name. That’s cool, right? I hope you don’t hold a grudge. When it comes to me, people always hold a grudge. I don’t even know why,” I shake my head hopelessly.

I flush the toilet and turn towards the basin. I wash my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. Something Carlson is getting a treat tonight. Nobody has ever seen me like this before.

A few strands of my black hair are falling in my face, sticking underneath my hoodie. I have vomit in the corners of my lips. My big brown eyes look red like I have been taking drugs or crying heavily. Neither of those are true. I have not been getting much sleep lately. The spiral days are taking their toll.

I gurgle and spit out the water. Then I scoop water into my palms and wash my face. I wet my hair a little and look at my reflection again. This is me but a little wet.

I laugh out loud.

“Are you ever going to get out?” Something Carlson says, holding the doorknob and looking at me, his expression stoic.

I was planning to go out at some point. After I was done puking, I would have walked out and started for home.

But as he is insisting for me to get out every five seconds, just because it is his house, or maybe his room. I am not going to. He should know something about me. I like to rebel. You give me rules, I like to break them. I don’t like doing things under someone else’s rules. I am free. Nobody can make me do anything unless I want to.

“Why? This is a free country and I can stay wherever I want,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest.

I expect him to sigh or give up. But he surprises me. “No, it isn't. You are going out of this room, right now. ”

Isn't he a child?

“What will you do if I don’t? And newsflash it’s your parents house not yours,” I say being annoyed.

My head is throbbing with every sound I make. I need to close my eyes and rest.

“You don't know anything,” he replies as I walk out of the washroom, followed by him.

Suddenly, the room spins. My legs give out beneath me and I stumble backwards and wait for my butt to hit the floor. Instead, two strong hands grip my shoulders and steady me.

“Easy, I don’t want you to bash your head in my room,” Carlson says right in my ear.

I shake his hands away. “I’m okay. ”

“Of course you are,” he rolls his eyes.

I stare at him. Then I turn sideways to see the big bed in the middle of the room. Oh man, I love beds, and this one looks extremely comforting. I walk right towards it and sit on the edge.

I almost sigh. It is as soft as I expected it to be.

“Great,” Carlson shakes his head. “Now I can’t get you out of here. Who knows when you will decide to kiss the floor again. ”

I look around his room, ignoring his comment. I can see the little things that make this room personal. A poster of Pink Floyd in the corner. Huh. A big walk-in closet on one side, I’m hoping. A study table in one corner. A guitar rests on top of a cupboard with rows of CDs and vinyls.

I have invaded Something Carlson’s room. I have ruined his quiet. I am a storm into his humble little abode. I am a nightmare in his dream. I smirk. I’m liking it.

“You’re right. I’d rather kiss this bed,” I say and flop back down on the bed. It gives a little under my weight.

“Yeah, because why not?” he asks sarcastically.

Seeing his hard face and not-so-happy expression, an idea pops in my head. “Want to join me?”

He studies me for a moment. “You are still very much drunk. ”

“So? You're gonna be the responsible one? I promise I will go easy on you,” I state.

He doesn't say a word. He is either angry, or stupefied, or both. Seeing him like that makes me laugh. I don't know why.

This is going to be so much fun. “Come on, join me in the bed. It's your bed after all. ”

He mutters some low oath under his breath and shakes his head. “That bed is all yours. Enjoy. ”

Then he turns around and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. Wait, was that the door or the closet? I think he vanished in the closet. Maybe he lives in Narnia.

I sigh. When I wake up, I will go to Narnia too.

The room is dark and quiet. I pull myself up farther in the bed. When I remember I’m still wearing my shoes, I groan. I sit up a little and pull them off, throwing them to the floor. I wiggle my toes and lie down on the bed again.

I can see an alarm clock on the bedside table. I pick it up. Using whatever light is coming through from the window, I set an alarm for 6 o'clock, because no matter what happens, I have to go back home.

Then I flip back onto my stomach. Pulling up the covers, I give myself up to sleep.

*****