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“Where have you been?”


The front door isn’t even closed behind me and mom’s already hovering, irritating me with her mere existence. I turn around to face her, and kick of my shoes in the same move. They smash into the wall with a low thud. Mom’s going to put them in right place later; she doesn’t like things to be untidy.


“Answer me, please.”


I roll my eyes and walk past her, into the living room where I throw myself horizontally on the couch. The leather squeaks from my weight and the sun from outside the window is too hot against my jeans covered thigh. I scratch my arm and imagine I can hear the small noise of dead skin leaving my body and fall down on my chest.


“You can’t just disappear like that,” she finally says and tiredly strokes underneath her eyes with two forefingers. “I’ve been worrying sick.”


“Sorry,” I mutter. My eyes are closed and I feel how sore my limbs are. I’m exhausted, definitely not in the mood to listen to her disappointment. It’s always the same anyways. Always the same.


“I told you to be home by midnight.”


“I know.” I can’t deal with her sad eyes. Why can’t people just make that sadness go away when they look at me? Just for once, just for one single little time so I would get the chance to know what normal is, how people usually look at each other.


“Where have you been?” She repeats as I sigh. “It’s almost noon, you’ve been gone all night.”


“With a friend,” I reply, though it’s half a lie. She doesn’t have to know everything.


Opening my eyes to look at her, I suddenly feel bad. She looks so tired, her eyes surrounded by tiny wrinkles, her mouth as a dry line. I don’t remember the last time I saw her truly smile.


“I’m sorry, mom,” I say. “I just wanted something… normal.”


She grimaces, I think it’s supposed to be a smile, and walks the few steps over to where I’m lying. Her hand finds my leg and she pats it softly. Like I’m some sort of a pet that needs its daily human affection. I move away from her, closing my eyes again. This exhaustion… it’s overwhelming.


“Honey, I know.”


I hate how she calls me ‘honey’. Maybe I even hate her, because she doesn’t know. She keeps insisting though, she keeps looking at me with pity oozing of her skin and saying ‘she knows’. ‘She understands’. How can she possibly understand?


“But you’re not normal.”


Again, I open my eyes to meet her grayish ones. They’re full of tears. I can’t stand people’s tears. It’s a waste of time to cry, especially when those tears are for somebody else. I don’t want people to cry because of me. What good does it do me, to know I’m the reason they’re sad?


Maybe it’s not the tears of other people I hate though. Maybe it’s the lack of tears in my own.


I should be the one crying. I should be the one screaming in sorrow.


Life’s unfair. That’s the simple truth.



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