*

The weather was less than ideal over the weekend. I spent most of it wrapped up in a blanket, drinking tea, and trying to catch up on homework. Today, I wake up dreading the day to come, as usual. But when I draw the curtains back to see freezing rain barreling down, I know that school must be cancelled.

In one regard, I've been lucky with continuously shitty weather as Gerard won't forcibly take me on driving lessons in these conditions. I realized I'm scared to get behind the wheel— terrified, really. Terrified that it might make those nightmares come back.

I roll over in bed, reaching out and almost knocking over a couple empty water glasses from my nightstand as I search blindly for my cell phone. Finally grabbing it, I squint through the light from the screen when I turn it on.

6:45 AM.

Monday, February 9, 2009.

I groan. I just woke up at 6:45 on a day I happen to not even have to get up early. And, of course, once I'm awake there's no way I'll get back to sleep.

Now, I can wrap myself up in a blanket burrito and stay here where it's warm. Where it's quiet. Alone with my early morning thoughts. Or, I can get out of bed and start my day. Maybe do something productive for once?

Somehow, neither of those options seem very appealing.

I should be more concerned about the fact that every day it's becoming harder for me to force myself out of bed. That the first thing I feel when I wake up is a sinking feeling in my chest as I realize I have to go through another day when I just went through one yesterday. I need a break from that cycle.

Or a distraction from it, at least.

My eating disorder was a way to distract and cope with my trauma, and the smoking and drinking I eventually fell into— short lived as it may have been— was a way to cope with that. And now my coping mechanism for this cold, grey, morning that reminds me all too much of the day I woke up to the news that my foster family had just died in a car crash, is to get out of bed and turn my bedroom light on. I guess I'm going with that latter option.

I make my bed and practically get out of breath while doing so.

Wow, Eve, I think to myself. Try warming up first next time?

Next, I simply sit on my bed and stick my earbuds in my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, and let the music consume me. The volume is loud enough that I wouldn't be too surprised if Gerard and Lindsey hear it from their room. I'm going to go deaf before I'm middle aged.

All too soon, I feel one of the earbuds being yanked out, interrupting What a Catch, Donnie. My eyes snap open to see Gee standing next to my bed, his hair disheveled and still in pyjamas.

"Was my music seriously that loud?" I whisper, genuinely fearing for the health of my eardrums.

"No, Eve." Gee wipes his eyes tiredly. "Just making sure you know school's cancelled today, but I guess you're ahead of me."

"Oh, yeah." I shrug, drawing my curtains back and gesturing at the freezing rain hitting the window. "Weather's pretty bad."

"Yeah," he agrees. He sits next to me. "What are you doing up so early? I thought you'd just go back to sleep."

Do I tell him that the only thing keeping me from spiralling into a pit of dark memories from the past happens to be the music that he just rudely took out of my ears? That'll put me at risk of breaking down in tears over something I should be over by now. And, when I start crying, I'm afraid I'll never stop.

The other option would be to tell a little white lie, keeping it simple.

What could a single lie hurt? It's not like I'll be spouting bullshit left and right like my fourteen year old self opted to do.

"Oh, I went to bed at a decent time last night so I'm not actually that tired," I say, turning up the corners of my mouth.

He looks down at my hands which have clasped in my lap. The way my fingers are fidgeting, how my palms have become slightly sweaty, even my fingernails are digging into my knuckles.

That's my tell.

Fuck.

Of course, I pretend not to notice. I guess my lying is out of practice by now.

"What's going on in that head of your's?" he asks.

"A lot of weird shit." Is my reply which, I can assure with one hundred percent certainty, is not a lie.

"If it's any consolation, we've hired a really great lawyer to fight for us. She thinks there's no way you're going anywhere."

The familiar stab to the chest hits me at the mere reference to that whole shit-show. "Dad," I say in a whinier voice than intended. "I wasn't even thinking about all that."

His face drops. "Sorry, Evie, I just thought... well, what is it then?"

"Nothing," I lie again, my hands now balled into tight fists at my sides. "I'm fine."

"Are you s—"

"Yes, Dad! I'm fine!" I snap. I'd been trying to keep my voice down, knowing that Lindsey is asleep just down the hall, but that all goes away in my sudden fit of frustration. "Could you please get out of my room?"

"Hey—" Gerard raises his hands in defence. "I just wanna make sure you're o—"

"Like I said, I'm fucking fine. Please, just leave me alone, I was actually doing something before you came in here."

At that, he just leaves. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even turn around, and simply shuts my door gently as though I hadn't definitely just woken up Lindsey already. And I, my heart beating faster than it should, my breath quick, my palms covered in little crescent moon dents thanks to my own fingernails, am alone. Just like I'd asked.

But it doesn't feel great.

Within a few deep breaths my anger has dissipated into something much worse: Guilt and shame.

You're a fucking bitch, Evelyn.

And the urge to punish myself for that somehow is at a level that's making my hands twitch, my fingernails dig into the skin on the back of my hand until I wince. The sick triumph of skipping out on breakfast would taste sweeter than any stack of pancakes.

I hate this.

Why is it that when I feel this way all I want is to go back to how it was before? When I hated myself and everyone else and everything. When I was sick and skeletal and in pain. When punishing myself was the only thing I was good at. If fourteen year old me knew I would still feel this way years down the line, maybe I would've attempted to succumb to my demons sooner.

I rise from my bed. Even after having made it just earlier, the sheets are somehow already wrinkly.

Without thinking through my actions, my feet hit the cold floor, one step after another until I'm standing in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. It had been an obvious lie when I'd forced a smile and said to Gerard that I just "wasn't that tired"; the bags under my eyes gave it away quicker than any tell.

My gaze flickers down to my countertop, my pulse quickening at the sight of the plastic razor.

I force myself to look away, squeezing my eyes shut. The image behind my eyelids is that of a woman in some razor commercial. Her teeth perfectly straight and white, her hair blonde and flowing, shaving her already smooth legs.

And then it's that of scars hidden behind long sleeves.

I practically run out of my bathroom and pull on a nightgown over my pyjamas before leaving my bedroom. I even close the door behind me, distancing myself as much as possible from the thing sitting on my counter. The downstairs is empty, so Gerard must have gone back to bed. It's still early, after all. I probably wouldn't even be in homeroom yet if school was still on.

I find myself feeling relieved that he did go back to bed, as I stand in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to finish boiling. I hold a plate of buttered toast in my hands. Just so that I don't have to confront him.

I'm doing my best to pretend that this has been just like any other morning and that I hadn't woken up unnaturally early. That the weather didn't immediately remind me of a tragedy, that I hadn't lied to and then yelled at Gerard for no reason, and that the thought of falling back into my old habits— and creating new ones— had never even crossed my mind.

But it wasn't just like any other morning. And, somehow, I know that it won't be the last of its kind.

• • •

I went to see Frozen 2 for my birthday after being told that I was too old to see Frozen 2 for my birthday but it was a late show and I got home at midnight so no I am not immature