Whether you're in some kind of pain or hurting (and that's what sadness does to you), at the moment, music has the power to heal your wounds, temporarily. It offers a feeling of relaxation in any situation. As with someone like me and how my body sinks into anxiety and depression, I have dipped into music with such great intensity. I love how the web of music is entrancing. The way it switches from one pace to another and then leads to a bleak sound.

As I continue to gaze into a part of the emptiness of my beige, flat ceiling, there are countless days when I would like to listen to some music. I like to watch the ceiling fan go round and round, just watching it go before I feel dizzy or stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars at night. I also quite like the warmth of how my own bed never fails to absorb all my salty tears every night and soak them up. The way music does to us is how my bed does to me—it sends me comfort.

It became a habit for me to cry at night or most evenings while listening to music, especially when I think about those memories I had with Elise and mom and dad.

Sometimes, I would think that it seems complicated to find ways to survive my very own nightmare. It's unlikely because I am the only one that stops me from fleeing. I have a choice, but I lack the power to make the determination. I am clouded by these thoughts within my mind and they are the only thing that remains to matter. It is a constant battle between my own thoughts and myself, and living leads to an endless loop of salty tears, every day and every night.

"You can't just lay in your bed, listening to Bee Gees all day. It's time for you to be productive!"

Over my Bluetooth speaker's powerful sound system, I can hear the buzzing sound of Zania's voice. She tossed a pillow squarely into my face, causing me to sit up straight. In much surprise, my eyebrows pull close as I look at her.

"Let's be honest here; productivity is not consistent," I say. Even though I felt like my own bed is beginning to resent my presence for being here for so long yet, I let my body fall back down into my bed.

I can't say that living with my mother's sister, Clarissa, and her daughter, has absolutely changed my life for the better. If crying most days and trying to suck it up, thinking that after two years, you're all better is a change, then I guess I'm living a miserable life with little attempt to try to progress with the use of therapy.

I have profoundly been impacted by the outside world and my success in seeking to change my lifestyle, such as my mental health, is nowhere near to being better.

"It can become consistent if you choose to be productive every day," Zania said in a sing-song tone of voice. "But you wouldn't know that because all you do is lay in your bed and blast your old music."

Zania continues to mutter under her breath but was loud enough for my ears to hear.

I suppose that anyone would prefer to listen to music all day and sleep in their bed all day rather than to go outside and witness people staring at you.

"Come on, it's time for us to head out. I need you to come with me and fetch some books," She pleads while my arm is being yanked. Zania forces me to move from a relaxed position. I pull my arm away, slipping back to my former place in a lazy way. As I groaned with my eyes closed, I raised the song's volume.

"I'm too lazy. Just let me be," I groaned.

"I am begging you. Please be kind to me," Zania continues to plead for my assistance.

This time, Zania violently yanked my arm, causing me to crash face-first onto the carpet board. I lifted myself off the floor, dusted my clothing, and then turned to look at her. On her lips, a lopsided grin emerged. I rolled my eyes, nodding my head, giving in as I watched her clap triumphantly at herself.

"Wait--," Zania says, "Are you for real, or am I just dreaming?" she whispers as she smiles, unbelievable now that she got me to say yes to going out after a long time.

I sighed and said, "I owe you this one, anyway," as I shrugged to myself.

She shrieked and hugged me before letting her walk out on her own, after I pushed her out of my room, closing the door. I stepped towards the mirror, looking at an image of my own. As I looked at myself, a surge of disgust found its way into my head, questioning every bit of my existence.

The last year of high school, senior year, finally came around the corner. It's not that surprising to hear I've passed all my subjects, knowing I've been gone for months because I know it's all Clarissa's doing. Clarissa told me that it's easier to concentrate on my mental well-being than surrounding myself with plenty of people, and I couldn't agree more.

The teachers at school assigned me certain activities in which I could consult with them via online video calls if I had any problems regarding the lessons, and they also assigned me some lessons to read and study on my own. I completed online exams that were monitored by Clarissa and each teacher on video calls for their specific subject. It wasn't the greatest, but it was the best I could do at the time.

As for therapy, I grew to hate it now when Clarissa takes me twice a week now, to my psychiatrist so that he can observe any more changes to check if there is anything new and ask questions that I found myself never seem to answer truthfully.

I have had to convince Clarissa not to let me stay for three entire weeks in a psychiatric facility, right away, just for a psychologist to properly monitor my behavior. I feel as if my psychiatrist is starting to treat me as if I've been carrying a disease that I have been dreaming of spreading.

As I walked downstairs, I heard an old, familiar giggly voice that made my lips turn upside down. Savannah stood there with her back facing me, talking with Clarissa about some meats and potatoes.

Savannah turned her head around to face me when she noticed Clarissa, who was looking directly at me. Her eyes sprang up at the sight of me, and she hugged me before I could register it.

Savannah, along with Zania and Clarissa and my psychiatrist who keeps me sane, was one of the people that made the previous two years tolerable. Without Savannah, I would not have made it through high school. She was the one friend I had who, after all, stood with me even after everyone heard what had happened to my family.

When I returned to school two years ago, weeks after my sister died, I knew that the moment I stepped foot inside that building, people would be staring and whispering. I would sometimes watch people leave notes on my sister's locker, some calling her an angel but most of them calling her a slut and a bitch—it's most likely the same students who came up to me on memorial service day and apologized for our loss.

It was terrible to observe and watch people put up such a simple façade as if they'd already mastered the art of lying for years. Because my friends—Janice, Kelly, Julia, and Savannah—were there with me, I assumed things would be easier. Because I had them, I thought it would be manageable. I just thought.

I overheard three familiar voices as I hurried into the toilet to blow some steam off inside a cubicle. Janice, Kelly, and Julia started chatting about how my sister deserved to die for flirting and sleeping with nearly half of the soccer team players.

"I heard she had a threesome at the homecoming party last year," Janice said, laughing. Her laugh echoed and filled the entire room, earning a chuckle from one of the two girls.

I hear the faucet water running as one of them continues to talk, "She threw up at Carson one time, while they were making out in the billiard room at Carson's house!" Julia gasps as I hear two people laughing in sync, and I imagine Janice laughing as her head is thrown back and she lets out her loud, humorless laugh.

"A-And then Carson was shouting at her but she just continues to throw up on their carpet!"

"I heard that carpet was expensive."

I went out of the cubicle in a haste. Janice and Julia stopped laughing as they noticed my reflection in the mirror in front of them. Janice smirks as she looks in the mirror, then turns to look over her shoulder at me.

"Oh," she says, "Didn't know you were there. How was first class?"

I gave her a hostile glare, my face distorted with rage as I tried to keep myself from grabbing her head and banging it against the mirror until she bleeds to death.

"Talking shit about the dead. How nice of you," I say in a sarcastic tone as she turns her head back. She rummages in her handbag before pulling out some lipstick and applying it to her lips while leaning inches away from the toilet mirror.

"How nice of you to pay your fake respects at the memorial service, apologize to me, and went on and on about the things you could've done as a friend of hers," I look at her in the mirror.

I took a step toward Julia and continue, "And how nice of you to laugh about my dead sister and call her names, apologizing to me about the loss on my end and then say that she deserved to die?!"

I look at Kelly, still holding that hostile glare from earlier, and said nothing more when Janice butted in to say, "She made out with Carson while Carson was still in a relationship with Julia. I think she has every right to call your sister a bitch."

"I saw you cried that day when we buried her. I heard you make your fucking speech that day during memorial service as you continuously cried. What a cheap show to earn some sympathy," I say as I chuckled bitterly, slowly clapping my hands at her face, "Well fucking done."

Janice rolls her eyes and shoves my hands away from her face, "You know what, fuck you. I only became friends with you because your depressed, pathetic sister thought you were going to be a loner. But you know what? I think it suits you."

"You two are really sisters." Janice smirks before she presses her finger at my chest and pushes me aggressively with it, "Loner. Pathetic. Depressed."

"You watched her kill herself and you didn't do anything about it."

Kelly grabs Janice's arm but Janice immediately yanked it away.

"You wanted her to die that day, that's why you didn't do anything to help Elise," She continued to spit venom from her mouth, and I just gazed at her, observing and listening as the person we used to refer to as a close family friend became far from that. "You're the reason why your sister is dead. Not us. Not anyone. You."

I blink my eyes, shaking my head from the train of thoughts, and smile as I patted her back, welcoming her embrace.

"Lauren, how have you been?" Savannah then looks at me and I watch her eyes immediately scan me up and down.

"You look better than the last time I saw you."

I smile at her, "How was your trip to the Netherlands? I haven't heard from you right before you landed and you never called when you came back."

Savannah shrugs and says, "The trip was great. I've been busy catching up with my cousins there and when we came back, mom wanted me to do so many things with her and grandma before the wedding in December."

"Someone's getting married?" I asked.

She nods her head and smiles half-heartedly, "Yeah, my mom."

"Oh?" Was all I managed to say as I watch Savannah look away.

Clarissa clears her throat and asks, "Going out?"

Her eyebrows knitted close together, amused as I nodded my head, telling her that I will be accompanying Zania somewhere today.

"And I forgot to tell you that I've decided to go back to school tomorrow."

Clarissa and Savannah exchanged glances, and I watch them both gaze at me, silently demanding an explanation or a rationale for my hasty decision without involving either of them.

"I think it's for the best, don't you think?" I say, "I mean, I can't just stay at home and finish the rest of high school at home."

Silence continues to fill the air and more of an eternity-like quiet. Clarissa tells me to talk to her later before she excuses herself, leaving me with Savannah. I prepare myself to answer all the questions she's going to ask me as I imagine myself opening up my arms completely to greet them and smack me across the face. "You're going to school tomorrow?"

It's one of those looks that people have been giving me, only this time, this was the hearing version of it.

"I mean, are you sure you can go to school tomorrow? Sounds like it's too soon," Savannah said in a this-is-absurd tone in her voice as if she couldn't believe it either as I do.

I assumed she would be thrilled that I had finally decided to leave the house and my comfort zone, but all I received was a stare from her as I try to come up with something to say that would make it appear as if I am confident, proud, happy, and satisfied with my decision, even though I felt close to nothing.

"No," I said, smiling. "I want to actually make some improvements for once. If I just stayed here before college, nothing will happen to me. At least, I'm doing something for a change."

Instead of thinking about going to college, I imagined myself staring at the stars at night, as if waiting for the night to delicately transition into the day. To hope while seeing the stars. I think I just woke up one day and realized that nothing will actually change. I will stay the same and continue to feel the same, wishing for change rather than taking the necessary steps to create change.

"The last thing I remember from two years ago was when you stopped coming to school and missed mid-terms because you are being monitored by your psychiatrist because of..." She points a finger at my face and starts running invisible circles in the air, "that thing inside of you."

To say that I'm offended would be the least.

"What does that even mean?" I asked.

I noticed that I sounded so bitter with what she was trying to convey. I watch her bite her lower lip then pouts.

"I mean that if you're going to skip school tomorrow, it's totally understandable," She immediately flashes me a smile. "And as your best friend, I am more willing to totally skip it with you to keep you company."

She winks her right eye at me, patting me on the shoulder.

I felt my tensed muscles relax, "Don't use me as an excuse for your laziness," I said in a cracked and raw voice, now we both know that I'm in a teasing mood.

Before she could say anything further and clarify whether I was sure about my decision, I already concluded the conversation by informing her that I'll be leaving the house and that I'll probably see her at school tomorrow.

After dumping a large basket in the kitchen that I only saw she was holding after I left the house to follow Zania to her car, I said my goodbyes to Savannah and heard her say the same to Clarissa.

I inhaled the fresh fragrance of the street sewage, which smells like a mix of sweaty armpits and rotten eggs, the instant I stepped out of the house. I cringed and held my breath and saw that today's sky is a blue-grey brindle with the lightest white accents, and thinking to myself that it was great to finally be out.

The idea of people: their continuous disapproving stares and whispers about my existence is the only thing that keeps me from achieving the task of stepping outdoors.

My mother introduced me to a belief system in which people's opinions mattered and there was no room for my opinions to be heard, much alone exists. She is an artist herself. She felt at ease as people praised her job, and all she had to thank was Bill at the end of the day. Not her husband who supported her. Not my sister who was always in awe of her. Not me who just stared at her paint. Only Bill.

Bill was one of the curators that arranged most of my mom's successful art galleries. I still remember, in her own precise words, the toast she gave before the gallery began: "I thank Bill for telling me what I should do. My art wouldn't exist if your opinions didn't."

I would always see Bill at our house. Mom would always invite him over on Wednesdays and I'd see them chatting about her paintings in the garage. I know he's a curator but why did his opinions matter so much that my mom was prepared to change her art just for him? Like, take a bullet for him and die for him in a heartbeat, if she must.

After my mom's last art gallery, before my sister passed away, I never saw Bill after that. He simply disappeared. I imagine him evaporating into the thin air with the snap of a finger. He didn't even show up for my mother and father's burial. The majority of my mother's artworks were still at his studio, and I never got the chance to get them from him.

Clarissa helped me in my search for Bill, but he most likely left the state or country years ago. There is little to no chance of his return and me, trying to at least, retrieve my mom's unsold artworks. It's the only thing that reminds me of her, as well as the only thing that reminds me of myself.

We arrived at the library in just less than 10 minutes, and I wasn't even aware that Zania was telling me a story about the latest book she read.

"You can stay here if you want," Zania says, reaching for her bag in the back seat.

"I'll tag along. I'm already out of the house, might as well get out of this car," I say.

She grabs her bag and spares me a glance.

"This is such a weird evening," Zania says. "Please tell me I'm not dreaming."

I rolled my eyes and smirked at her as she smiles at me for being out with her. She takes out the car key and drops it into her pocket. As soon as we both got out of the car, I trailed behind her.

In front of me, the beige building stands firm and tall, reminding me of how Elise enjoyed going here on weekdays after school to read and study.

We entered the library, and I was greeted with the sentimental air of the last memory of me, being here. The scent of the books fills the interior of this old building. As I find myself heading into a group of shelves, books circling me from head to toe, Zania vanishes in an instant the moment I turned my head around.

As I blindly picked a book that seemed so familiar to me, I brushed my hands over the books on the shelf in front of me. I flipped through the pages and ended up with a card at the end of the novel, filled with names that once borrowed the book.