Rain splattered against the windows. She could hear it even through her music, which she had cranked up to nearly full blast. Her mother hated it. Her father didn't care; he wasn't around enough to even notice what was going on.
The song blared. Cellos violently playing somehow created such a dark, beautiful sound. She thought that maybe this song truly portrayed pain in the correct form... Not that she had a firm grasp on what that really was. It changed on a day to day basis. Depended on what had caused her pain that day. A never ending philosophy on the real description of what it was.
Today, as most days, the problem was her mother.... Maybe. Or was it the kids at school? The fact that she still didn't have a boyfriend? Was it the lack of talent?
It honestly varried. Some people might say she had a good life. Everything a person would need. A family, a house with the necessities in it, clothes that weren't entirely terrible, okay grades, and a normal amount of friends. But something was missing. The only problem was that she had no idea what it was, either.
She got off her perfectly made bed. The lilac sheets and bedspread barely had a crease in them; such was the case for nearly everything in her house. It was mostly perfect. And bland. One might think that no one actually lived in the house, and that instead, the house was some kind of model. A replica of a house before a family moved in.
It wasn't always like this. There was a time that her family functioned like any other family. Things weren't so stiff and seemingly perfect. They had a dog, her father was home more often. Her mom didn't work all the time. She went out to parties and went rollerskating or to a movie with her friends on the weekend. There was drama, yes, but like the normal teenager kind. The "You stayed out too late," and the "Who's dating who," kind. She was in the excel classes. But that was before.
Thunder errupted outside. The wind tossed around twigs and branches. They clashed against the windows and the sides of the house.
Creeping over to the full length mirror, she studied herself. "My name is Jameson Havenforth." She said to herself quietly, as if she were worried that someone may hear her. "I am fifteen years old. I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes." She paused for a moment. "I live on 3507 Maplecrest Drive. I go to Washington High School."
Her eyes stared at the girl in the mirror. It was hard to believe that the person in the mirror was her. She used to be pretty. Kind of pretty, at least. This past year had not been kind on her. Her skin was pale and dry, her hair dirty and oily. And then, of course, there were the scars. There were scars from cutting herself. And then there were the Others.
The Others were a constant reminder of what happened. Something that haunted her every single day, and probably would for the rest of her life. It wasn't something she could easily forget, either; there were multiple jagged scars that ran up and down her right arm. Some were horizontal as well. They also ran down her right side, and her shoulder. Her torso was covered. There were a few scars on her right thigh, and criss-crossing ones on her ankle. There was also a slender, jagged one that ran slanted from her cheek bone to her collar bone.
Her finger tips slightly brushed the cool surface of the mirror. Tears welled in her eyes, but never spilled out onto her cheeks. She refused to cry. She hadn't cried once since IT happened. There was no point in starting now.
"I am nothing." She said in a hollow voice.
Thunder and wind roared with a fury, seeming as though they were angry with her. She clenched her fists for no apparent reason. Anger, perhaps. Depression. Grief, maybe? Regret?
Simultaniously, the power went out right out at the same time she whispered the horrifying words that were sadly the truth.
"My sister is dead because of me."