I open my eyes when I can no longer will my body to go back to sleep. You might say I'm a morning person, but I hate that shit. Why can't I sleep past 5am like a normal teenager? Of course, one more thing about me just had to be different. I guess one more 'fuck you' gift from the good lord. That guy really hates my fucking guts. It's been the only explanation I've ever arrived at after everything that's happened to me.

Although I know there are other people out there who have had it worse, but I'm not them, and I don't give a shit what anyone else who isn't me has suffered. This is all I know. I guess I'm self-centered like that. My therapist would be proud at my journey in self-discovery. But fuck that guy and his wondering eyes. Fuck him and honesty fuck the world.

I kick my blanket when I can't stand the heat any longer. Being here longer feels like the heat is seeping into my skin and biting me.

I shove my feet into my morning shoes, and I stretch, yawning as I do. I am trying to be positive and not worry so much. I am trying to hold on to my mother's words that this could be my chance to make friends, to be normal. But I can't find it in me to be that excited about it considering how this 'opportunity' came about.

My mother fell ill six months ago, and father sent her to Switzerland for treatment three months ago. My mother negotiated for me to come here instead, even though I would have preferred to be closer to her.

Father conceded. Though I suspect not out of his cold heart but because he could get me out of his hair too while mom is away.

Ah, the happy family.

A fucking joke.

That's what other people say, what they think when they see the perfect little picture my father has curated.

The perfect American family.

My father is the governor and the first black governor of our state and people eat that shit up. Slavery really had everybody so fucked up that they would rather a devil as a leader just so long as he was the right color. It's fucked up. It's all fucked up. Just one big mess.

All of us are fucked up. And if we aren't, then the world makes sure that by the time our lives end, we have no illusions of its kindness.

Life is here to fuck us all.

No virgins make it to deaths door. Everyone must pay the piper. And everyone must spread their ass for life to fuck. That's what we are here for. Life's whores. If you don't to bend over, then life will simply push you down and fuck you anyway.

That was the world that we lived in.

Some may think that makes me a pessimist, but I don't think that at all; I am a realist. I used to be an optimist. Back then with them. My shadows. But even back then life had showed up and showed out. I shake that thought out of my head. One of those memories that I don't want to remember.

The life I don't want to remember. The person I don't want to remember. A person who doesn't exist anymore. I don't need them, I made it all by myself. I am fine now. Healed.

I step into my bathroom, and I undress my pajamas and drop them in the bin.

My phone rings as I was about to turn the spray on, and I sprint to the bedside table. It can only be one person.

I swipe the green button, answering the video call.

My heart sinks, like it has the past few months when I see her weary face that seems to get paler and worse every day. But I force a smile even though I want to weep.

"There is my beautiful girl." She says with a smile that seems almost painful

"Mommy." I respond, trying to punch back my tears

"Why are you looking so morose, honey. Today is the first day to the rest of your life!" she sounds excited, and I can't help my grin. She always knew how to make me feel better

"We aren't sure about that, mom. Could be another Green Oak Prep and I end up expelled again."

She frowns. "Don't be cynical, Zaz. You will make friends. You promised me, remember?"

I let out a sigh as I head to the bathroom. If this is anything life normal, then we'll be on the phone for tens of minutes. And I have some last-minute packing to do before I am shipped off to boarding school. But at least it's one more year.

"I haven't forgotten."

"Find those geeky nerds. Who knows maybe they'll be the next Steve Jobs." She wiggles her eyebrows, though it's not as energetic as usual. This illness is really draining her of everything she once was.

"Ew! I don't want them to be Steve Jobs. He was a dick."

"Language!"

I try to stifle a chuckle. "Sorry, mom," I pause. "But I'll be 18 in 2 months, soooo." I shrug

"You are not 18 yet."

"Fine, mommy." I set my phone down at the stand I bought for the bathroom, and I pick up a toothbrush.

"Maybe you'll get a boyfriend and have a high school sweetheart."

"Woah, hold it there, old lady. I am there for an education." I animate the words with hand gestures

"Oh, come on. You know how waiting ended for me." Her face turns serious. "I want more for you, Bella."

I start brushing my mouth. My mother has always tried to fight for me to have more freedom and more life, but my father was never having any of that. He wanted me locked inside the house, lest I tarnish his good name. Cause god forbid I hang out at the ice cream shop with some girl pals. I spit and I rinse, then I brush my tongue.

"Imagine it. Holding hands, park walks, going together to the cafeteria, having your backpack carried for you." She dreams away and I exhale as I shake my head to her. I step in the shower, and she goes on and on. When I step out of the shower, she had to go. It was her doctor time.

"I love you, my beautiful girl. Never forget that, okay?"

I nod. "I know, mom. I love you too and I miss you so much." I blink back tears as she tiredly waves a hand to me before the screen goes blank. That moment always feels like a gut punch. Reminding me always that life was indeed a bitch.

I finished packing my books and gadgets then I went out to breakfast. I sat down at the same seat I always do. Two seats to the left of where my father sits. I am alone in a table that fits 20 people. Always alone.

My father hardly even comes here anymore. He used to pop in maybe once a week when mom was still living here but since he comes sometimes once a month, I suspect to just make sure I'm not dead yet and drone to me about his job, his political strides and whatever political bullshit he is on that time. My father is a plan man; he always has a plan, and he always has a goal, an angle he's working.

After I finish the waffles with extra chocolate syrup, I walk to our family library. My favorite place in this whole house, outside of my bedroom. I sit on the chair I always sit at and look out of the window to the beautifully manicure lawn. The scene always calms me. and I need all the calm I can muster.

I am going to a new school, albeit senior year, but I have been to two other high schools before, I know the drill. I'm the new girl and vultures will be out to grab their own pound of flesh.

My plan is to do what I did in my last school, keep my head down like mom said and focus on my grades and maybe make friends.

I hadn't made any the last school I went to, on account of many of the parents hating my father, and ergo, the kids. But a girl can hope, right?

One of the staffers calls me when the driver is ready, and I head to my room. I sweep with my gaze to ensure I'm not forgetting anything. I wouldn't want to forget anything and have to call my father and he has to inconvenience himself doing something for his child. Governor Clark has much more important matters than their child's stuffed animals.

I head downstairs and I hop in the back seat where I always sit. I may have slight OCD. My patterns comfort me. But it's nothing heavy, just little things. Specific seats, specific tiles in the house, specific bathroom stalls, counting steps in 7s, specific way of reading a book, specific way I eat everything. Just, yeah, nothing major. That's normal, right?

Joseph always said I'd be easy to kill because of some of my patterns. I shake that unwelcome memory out of my head. It has taken me years, but I finally moved on and I no longer mourn their loss. I am fine. I am self-sufficient. I am a survivor.

We drive for an hour and a half before we board the plane. We are in Charlotte in two and a half hours. My new haven and possibly new hell. I really hope it's the former. I could use something positive in my life.

Security escorts me to the car. One of the things I already really like about this place is that I will be without security, for the first time in 9 years. Charlotte is a small town. At least 2 hours' drive from any city.

I bear everything knowing it's the last time. No more escorts, no more journalists, no more eyes on me. My shot at normalcy.