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bronwyns-art-locker · 2 years ago

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take as needed

another short story i wrote for class. tw// vomiting, drug misuse

Something happened to me last night. A complete, total loss of my senses. An inability to move my arms, legs, neck, face, and extremities. A lack of awareness of my entire body. When I awoke from a comatose state, I felt like putty. I could not feel the clothes on my body, nor smell the air around me. The only senses that I still had intact were my blurry vision and my muffled hearing. Perhaps “blurry” isn’t the right word for it – call it “fading.” I could only process about fifty to sixty percent of the light that hit my retinas. The rest of my vision was occupied by black spots; funky patterns that seemed to transform the more I focused on them. I could move my eyes, but it wasn’t precise. It’s like they floated around in my head. So I let them float. I scanned the room around me.

Wherever I was, it was not somewhere that natural light could not reach. The only light in the room was coming from behind my head, which was a piss-yellow color and poorly dim. Through the haziness of my vision, I saw faint impressions of the room around me. Silhouettes of furniture, bookshelves, and picture frames were scattered around. It was hard to make out details. I could spot another light to the left of me: a small red dot that danced around in my peripheral vision. I tried to focus on it, but trying to hold my vision still was like trying to aim down the scope of a rifle aimed at a target miles away. It was no use.

I contemplated the state that I was in – this half-consciousness. My brain was slowly waking up from the comatose state that I started in, and I was able to think at a greater capacity. I knew I was in trouble, but I felt no anxiety. Somehow, I felt a sort of peace. In my mind I felt a primal comfort that I can imagine only fetuses in the womb would know. I wasn’t in pain. I felt no fear. I simply existed.

Unfortunately, I could not stay in this state forever. Eventually, my stomach (being empty for over two hours now) would have started to contract to salvage whatever food it could find inside, and let out a low rumble known as a borborygmus. Once it figured out there was nothing left, it would produce ghrelin in an attempt to beg my body for food. If I didn’t feed it, gas would build up in my body and cause damage and pain. If starving didn’t kill me first, then the severe dehydration would. Lord knows how much sweat I had secreted sitting in one place for, presumably, hours. In the state I was in, there’s a chance I wouldn’t notice symptoms like dry mouth, or muscle cramps, or light headedness. But an increase in my heart rate, and the eventual deterioration of my cells would likely be something I’d notice eventually. Who knows, I’d maybe even lose my fleeting vision on top of that. The reality of these things started to set in for me the more my consciousness came back to me. The tranquil peace I felt before was slowly starting to fade, and panic began to haunt my body. As I started to wake, my senses slowly returned to me one by one in a most painful fashion.

It all started with a blink. A slow, dry blink that felt like I was scraping my eyes with low grit sandpaper. My entire body began to feel like static, causing an unbearable sensation that started at the base of my feet and crept its way up to the bottom of my neck. My jaw began to tremble and clench hard, and my breathing intensified. I could begin to move my head, and bent my neck down to look at my body. I was drenched in sweat, and I could see that I was lying on a brown couch with my left arm hanging off the side. I stared at my arm, and with all the will in my body tried to lift it. The static started to fade, and I could scarcely control my arm beginning at the top of my shoulder… then down my bicep… past my elbow, which had started to bend… finally my wrist (but not my fingers). My arm flopped over the couch, and landed on my chest. I slowly clenched my fingers, and then opened them. The static had not fully gone away, but I was able to control my body slightly. I turned my head further to my left to see the rest of the room. I stared at the red dot that continued to dance in my peripheral, and focused on its surroundings. In the dimly lit room I could finally see that the dot belonged to the infrared sensor of a television mounted on the wall. Below the t.v. was a short table with model cars lined up in a row, and beneath that was a shelf with game consoles and a cable box. As I woke up more, I could recognize the cars, the table, and the rest of the room. I was in my basement.

In front of me on the couch was a square ottoman, and sitting on the edge was an open, orange pill bottle. With my vision still hazy, I could not read the label. I let out a sharp exhale, and a sense of dread flooded my body. I felt flushed. I turned back towards my chest and tried to sit my body up. I lifted my neck, then my shoulders, and fell back down after my strength gave out. I tried to lift my right arm. My elbow bent and my hand laid down on top of where my other arm had ended up. I tried my legs next, and got my right knee to bend upward and stay there. I went for my left leg next, and tried to have it fall off the couch and give me enough support to sit up and face the t.v. My leg fell, and when my big toe tapped the floor a sharp sensation of static rippled throughout my leg and caused me to let out a strained groan – the first audible noise I had made since waking up. My right leg followed suit, and eventually enough feeling came back to the rest of my body for me to attempt to sit up once more. I lifted my head, and my upper body followed. I sat completely upright, but almost swung right back down on the other side.

My head was weightless. I felt like a cartoon character the way my eyes spun around in their sockets. I was experiencing orthostatic hypotension – my blood pressure was extremely low from being dormant for so long that when I sat up I experienced extreme dizziness. It took a minute for my world to stop spinning, and once I got my orientation straight I looked towards the pill bottle. I reached for the bottle, but had trouble because my hands were trembling. I held it up to my face and squinted my eyes, and past the shaking I could barely read: Diazepam, 20mg. Take as needed for anxiety.

Diazepam – also known as Valium. A benzodiazepine that acts as a depressant, used to increase feelings of calm in your brain that is commonly used to treat anxiety, muscle spasms, and seizures. It’s a controlled substance due to the fact that benzos have severe side effects that include impairment of judgment, memory, and coordination. Judgment… memory… coordination. My trembling hands dropped the open bottle to the floor, and small blue tablets rolled out and onto the carpet. Suddenly, I felt the need to evacuate my stomach.

Standing up was a monumental task for me. On top of the dizziness, I now had an uncontrollable shakiness to combat on my journey to the basement bathroom that was located about thirty feet from the couch. My knees convulsed violently as I put the weight of my body on them to rise myself off the couch. Once I was standing up properly, they locked into place. I took small, careful steps towards the bathroom as my body swayed back and forth from my lack of balance. I fell onto a wall to hold myself up as I gathered the strength to push forward. My vision was spinning again, and my legs grew weaker with each step. It was a straight line into the bathroom, and I used the last of my strength to fling my momentum towards the bathroom door and used my legs to keep balance. I crashed into the door, and fell to my knees in front of the open toilet.

My head hung over the rim of the toilet, and I felt saliva start to build up underneath my tongue. A chill went through my body as gas escaped through my mouth in the form of wet, sickly belches. Then I felt it come up. My stomach muscles contracted tightly, and the contents of my body were launched upwards through my esophagus, over my tongue, and into the toilet. Some of it landed on the rim, and dripped back into the bowl with the rest of the watery, red fluids. My snot also joined the bile in the toilet as it dripped down in large globs from my face.

The dizziness and the nausea ended as I hunched over the toilet. I was breathing heavily, and could hear my whines echo throughout the bowl. I stood up from the bowl with newfound strength, and turned on the sink. Before I could wash my hands or my face, I turned on the lights and looked at myself in the mirror. I was a pale, ghostly white. The blood vessels underneath the surface of my eyes were irritated, causing my eyes to appear bloodshot. The hair on the back of my head was sticking up. Sweat bullets were strewn across my forehead and slid down my face. A bit of vomit was still left on the corner of my mouth, and I wiped it off with my thumb (my hands still trembling). I stared at myself for what felt like hours. And then it hit me.

The feeling that I was trying to avoid by taking the diazepam had come back in full force to haunt me once again. A heavy feeling in my shoulders. An increase in paranoia. A cold gust of extreme anxiety had washed over my body once again. My overactive amygdala hijacked my brain’s limbic system and caused my body to panic. I was in fight-or-flight. My tear ducts began to swell, and hot tears streamed down my face as my breathing got even heavier and I whimpered in fear. I swung my head away from the mirror – it was always so ugly when I cried. My muscles were extremely tense, and my fists were clenched so hard that I felt my nails digging into the flesh of my palms. I began to sob. Small coughs interjected my whines. I limped away from the bathroom towards the piss-yellow light that radiated from a small lamp sitting on a side table next to the couch. I looked down at the small, blue tablets that were strewn across the carpet. I picked one up slowly, and held it in the palm of my shaking hand for a while. I stared at it, my mind contemplating. What other solutions do I have? I can’t live like this. I feel so terrible. I want it to end… I want it to end... I want it to end…

Then, I felt a harsh rumbling in my stomach. The muscles were contracting, and they were looking for food. “Borborygmus,” I muttered to myself. My tears stopped, and instead a small chuckle flowed out of my nostrils. I dropped the blue tablet onto the floor and turned around and limped toward the stairs. “I guess I could eat. Shower, too.” The fear and panic started to settle as I made my way toward the natural light spilling in from the open basement door. My tears began to dry, and I wiped the snot from my nose. My parasympathetic nervous system had started to bring my body back to a regular balance. My pupils contracted, my heart rate regulated, and my breathing became more calm. My body had entered rest-and-digest mode. My brain was finally fully awake. My anxiety subsided, for now. I went about my day, as if the hell I had just endured was a regular occurrence. It might as well have been.

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bronwyns-art-locker · 2 years ago

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chatterbox

another short story i wrote for class. kinda gimmicky. i still like it.

[8:38pm] veronica_is_cool: Can we take a break? :3 I wanna hear about your day!

[8:38pm] xlincoln_logx: sure! u first tho

I’ve been talking to this Veronica roleplayer for about 3 months now. We met in one of those open role play rooms on ChatterBox. We ended up talking for hours that night, so we decided to make a private room for the two of us. It’s pretty rare to find anyone roleplaying Veronica these days in the Magical Arrival community, especially since they killed off her character last season. I guess one could say the same about my character, Lincoln. He’s not necessarily a protagonist, but he’s a recurring character that I really related to. That’s really the beauty of roleplaying online – even the most minor characters can be fleshed out by the fans in whatever way they want.

[8:40pm] veronica_is_cool: My day was fine I guess! Today at school some kid tried snorting salt during lunch so that was weird xD!

[8:42pm] xlincoln_logx: thats insane lol i was out from school today tho so i just spent most of my day doom scrolling online as usual

In the 3 months since we’ve started talking, I've gotten really close to her. When we stop role playing we just talk like regular friends. She told me her real name is Lili. She loves to draw, write short stories, and role play Magical Arrival online. What’s cool is she’s the same age as me – or at least I assume so. The thing about online friends is that you can never really discern if they’re telling you the truth about their lives. I took what I could get, though. She still listened to me and treated me like a real friend. Honestly, she was the closest friend I had at the time. But I had never seen her face. Or heard her voice.

[9:16pm] veronica_is_cool: I’m just really shy, Max. Plus, how do I know that when we video call there’s not gonna be some older creep staring at me through me screen ;P (just joking).

[9:18pm] xlincoln_logx: nah i get it, im rlly shy too

[9:21pm] veronica_is_cool: I’m just worried you won’t like what you see.

More than anything, I just wanted her to say yes one day. I wondered what she was so afraid of.

[9:25pm] veronica_is_cool: Max, do you ever feel… out of place sometimes?

[9:25pm] xlincoln_logx: yea like all the time

[9:26pm] veronica_is_cool: How so?

[9:27pm] xlincoln_logx: i mean i dont rlly have friends at my school if thats what u mean.

[9:28pm] veronica_is_cool: Not really. I mean like, do you ever feel out of place in your own body? Like you wish you could just be born different.

[9:30pm] xlincoln_logx: i cant say that i have. why, is that how u feel??

[9:31pm] veronica_is_cool: Sometimes.

I failed to come up with a reply. I had never heard her express something like this before.

[9:45pm] veronica_is_cool: Sometimes I just look at myself in the mirror. I look at my body, my face, my hair… and I don’t feel like I’m me. I have, like, this picture of myself in my brain of how I want people to see me, but I know that will never happen. Really, the only person who sees me the way I want to be seen is you.

[9:46pm] veronica_is_cool: I guess that’s why I’m so afraid to show you my face. I’m sorry.

I didn’t know what to say or what to think. I didn’t know how to interpret what she was trying to say to me. Had she been lying to me about who she was this whole time? I felt a strange anxiety creeping up my body. It started at my legs, and made its home in my stomach. I couldn’t look at my screen for too long or else I’d just fixate on her words and get more afraid of what she was hiding from me. For the first time in a few hours I looked away from the bright glow of my laptop, and let my eyes wander around my room.

I looked at my bed sheets, then my unfolded laundry. I got so deep into talking to her that I forgot to at least clean my room. Then I glanced at my mirror, and held my gaze longer than I expected. I examined my face; my expression. I looked tired, but not unlike myself. I guess I could stand to get a haircut, because it was getting a little long. And I needed to shave the rat-stache I had been growing since 8th grade. I definitely had an awkward appearance, but that never bothered me. I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own body – not at all like Lili said she felt. I looked away.

My eyes then landed on the Magical Arrival poster hanging on the wall across from me. It featured all of the major characters standing at a bus stop together in poses that represented their personalities. On the far right stood Veronica. She was staring down at her shoes with her hands in her coat pockets, acting just as shy as she usually was on the show. As I studied her figure longer, I realized that I actually had a face I’d picture when I would think about Lili.

[10:03pm] xlincoln_logx: we’re friends right lili?

[10:04pm] veronica_is_cool: I’d like to think we are.

[10:05pm] xlincoln_logx: you mean a lot to me. you’re someone i want to stay friends with for a while.

[10:05pm] veronica_is_cool: I feel the same way.

[10:06pm] xlincoln_logx: then would it be too much to ask that you dont keep anything from me?

[10:08pm] veronica_is_cool: It’s not…

[10:09pm] xlincoln_logx: do you trust me enough to show me what ur afraid of?

[10:10pm] veronica_is_cool: It’s not that simple. I don’t think you get what I’m trying to say.

[10:11pm] xlincoln_logx: i think im starting to get it. can we just try and figure it out together?

She didn’t reply for a while. I was afraid she had left entirely. I was afraid I scared her away.

[10:45pm] veronica_is_cool: Okay. Let’s do it.

That anxiety I felt earlier had found its way back into my body. Instead of being in my stomach, it found its way up to my chest and my arms. I was breathing manually now, and I felt a subtle tightness in my shoulders and on the sides of my ribs. My arms felt like they had 20 pound weights on them. I nervously opened up Skype and typed in her username. It felt like the ringing lasted forever, until she finally picked up and all I saw was her profile picture: a drawing of Veronica. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I’m turning on my camera now.” Her voice sounded strained, like she wasn’t speaking in her natural register. She finally turned on her camera.

It was my friend. For the first time since I met her, I finally saw my friend’s face. She had pale skin, and some acne on her cheeks. Her wide lips were contorted into a nervous smile as we stared at each other, just examining each other’s appearance. Her hair was long and slightly unkempt. It reached the tops of her shoulders, and was a deep brown color. Her blue eyes hid behind thick, rectangular glasses and in the reflection of them I could see myself on her screen. I was surprised to see that she was wearing winehouse style eyeliner, and it was neatly done. Draped over her body was an oversized “Deftones'' t-shirt; her favorite band. She looked undeniably nervous. Her eyes were shooting around the room, trying hard not to look at herself on her own screen. The more I looked at her the more I thought about our conversation. I thought more about why she was afraid to show herself to me. I thought about how much courage it must have taken to do this video call at all. I thought about the trust she put into me to reveal this side of herself. I needed to break the silence. “You know, you look just like her, right?” I said.

“Who?”

“Veronica.”

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bronwyns-art-locker · 2 years ago

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love song

short story i wrote for class. don't read too deep into it. tw// body dysphoria/dysmorphia, gender dysphoria

Casey slouched over her bent knee, sitting on the tub, and watched as a small bullet of blood built up on her leg where she had just shaved. Despite shaving just three days prior, her hair had already grown back more than she could handle. It was important to her that she kept her legs and arms completely bare, lest she feel the need to peel off her own skin.

Her bathroom was small, with white tile going half way up the wall and dull, blue paint continuing to the top. The room was lit by a single fluorescent lightbulb that was mounted above her mirror. The bathroom door was open, allowing her to peek out into her pitch black bedroom. Only a digital clock on her nightstand could be seen in the dark. It was three-thirty in the morning. Thin strips of moonlight spilled in between the blinds drawn on her window. On that window was a small box fan, blasting cold air into the room to cool the summer heat.

Casey hummed to the tune of a song she wrote as she stared vacantly at the razor in her hands, tracing the shape of her legs and removing the hair. With every stroke of the blades she felt more and more relief as she could see more of her skin underneath. She rinsed herself off, cleaned the razor, and patted herself down in a bath towel. She felt a bit more like herself again.

As she washed her hands in the sink, she refused to look at herself in the mirror. She shut off the light, and walked slowly into her room.

Next to her unmade bed was a small, oak desk. On top of it sat a laptop, two three-inch speakers, a boom arm with a microphone, and a set of piano keys. She sat down in her chair and turned on her laptop — this was the only time that she wanted work on her music. Despite the late hour, she felt wide awake. As her old computer booted up, she took out her phone and opened up her notes. She scrolled through pages of lyrics, chord diagrams, and song ideas until she landed on the song she was humming in the bathroom.

Casey had been writings songs since she was eleven; Her parents put her in piano lessons when she was eight, and she later took interest in playing guitar. When she was ten, she discovered electronic dance music on the internet, and begged her parents to buy her the same music software that her favorite producers used. Songwriting became her outlet as she got older. When she was twelve, she wrote songs about middle school drama, life in suburbia, and her cats. Now that she was in high school, she wrote songs about unrequited love, her deeper emotions, and her life as a teenager. When she started high school, Casey began posting some of her songs online and even amassed a decent following. About two-thousand people followed her online for her music, with her biggest song having over sixty-eight-thousand streams online. At times, this large following would stress her out — she felt that every track she shared online had to be perfect. She didn’t want to disappoint the strangers who enjoyed her music. Yet, she also didn’t want to share tracks that were too personal online either. She needed a degree of separation from these strangers.

Tonight, she was working on a song about a boy she liked. She had seen him in the locker room before gym class during the school year. He was the star of the track and field team at her school, known for having the state record for the triple jump in New Jersey. He was much taller than her, and more built. What she liked most about him was that he was nicer to her than the rest of the boys at school. He didn’t make fun of her the length of her hair or how skinny she was. He didn’t make jokes about how she was “in the wrong locker room.” He didn’t fake flirt with her like the rest of the guys did. He treated her like she was a regular person. She knew that all she had was a crush, and nothing more. But she still wanted to write a song about it.

Her computer booted up and she opened her last project on her music program. She had already tracked two acoustic guitar parts for this song and she was ready to start adding vocals to it. She couldn’t sing too loudly, though, as her parents were asleep down the hall. She pulled her microphone down in front of her face, and held up her phone for the lyrics behind it. She started recording, and sang:

I thank god I met you today.

It felt so real when your hand was on— my face.

I thought that you’d lead me astray.

But thank god I saw you— it turns out you stayed.

Casey enjoyed imagining scenarios where she was in love with someone. She could never see herself in a real relationship, though — that dream felt too far away for her. She thought that, with the way she was right now, no one would want to love her the way she imagined. She sang:

And all the lights are going out, it’s only you and me.

I’d beg to be your other half— you said it’s meant to be.

But we don’t have to play these games, we don’t have to settle.

I told you that I loved you, and you’re getting sentimental.

The most she could do was write songs imagining she was loved.

Casey continued working on the song until the summer night turned into day, and she could hear her parents down the hall waking up. It was six in the morning and it was time for her to get some sleep.

The next day, Casey woke up to the sound of her mother’s jingling keys unlocking the front door. Her digital clock read four in the afternoon. She turned over in bed and grabbed her phone from the night stand. She had several notifications from a group chat of her online friends. They had been sending each other memes and hello’s, and had planned to get on a group call later that day. Casey said she’d be there.

As she brushed her teeth in the bathroom, she refused to look at her face. She leaned her back against the sink, and looked out into her bedroom where her mother had appeared. “Casey, honey, were you in bed all day?” she asked. Casey turned to spit out some toothpaste.

“Yeah, like a little bit.”

“I get that it’s summer and all, but you should consider having a healthier sleep schedule. Just imagine how hard it’s gonna be to get out of bed when school comes back around.”

“Yeah, I’ll definitely get on that,” she replied with sarcasm.

“Well you missed out on a good breakfast. Your father made those spam and egg sandwiches, or whatever.”

“Don’t tell me they’re all gone.”

“They’re all gone.” Casey sighed. She went back to brushing as her mother left the room to feed the cats.

Later, Casey sat down at her desk to get on call with her friends, who had already started without her. During the summer, she would typically spend most of her day on her computer. When she wasn’t talking to her friends, she’d usually spend her time browsing forums or watching YouTube videos. Today, she was listening to her friend Cari (from Rhode Island) talk about the song she had been working on all week. “Yeah, I’ve been kind of slaving away at this for a while,” Cari said, “but, I think I’m starting to like it — or I could just be getting Stockholm syndrome with this song.” Cari’s song was also about love. She would often cite her boyfriend as her muse when she talks about writing lyrics. Writing love songs came easy to Cari, and they always had a happy ending. Casey enjoyed that about her.

All of Casey’s online friends made music. Some of them were songwriters, others were just instrumentalists. They all had their own interests and strengths. However, most of them agreed that out of all of them, Casey was the most capable musician of the bunch. They all started making music long after Casey had started at a young age, and they were all consistently impressed by the quality and quantity of her work. Casey, however, felt differently. “Casey, I’m sure whatever you’re working on is, like, already leagues ahead of my shit,” Cari said.

“Nah, not really,” Casey laughed, “I’ve just got, like, a really barebones demo right now.”

“Then send it over!”

Reluctantly, Casey sent over an early version of her song. The friends went silent as they listened to the track for about a minute. When it was over, Cari let out a long groan. “Goddamnit, Casey, I spent a whole week working on my shit, yet you spent one night making this fucking masterpiece,” she said. Casey laughed and told Cari, “it’s just one verse.” Her other friends chimed in with their own compliments and observations. Casey thanked them, but deep down she didn’t feel the same way about the song. She was never the proudest of her love songs. They were too personal for her to share, and she’d often feel embarrassed showing them to her friends. Plus, she didn’t know how she was going to end the song. But she wouldn’t share these feelings with them. Cari asked, “so when you finish this, are you gonna post it online?” Casey was hesitant to answer. “I don’t think so,” she replied.

It was midnight again and Casey was back at her computer working on the song. Her room was hotter than usual — she turned off the box fan in her window to eliminate the amount of noise in her room for a clean recording. Only the dim screen of her laptop illuminated the room. Her conversation with Cari reminded her why she doesn’t share love songs with others often. While people see value in her songs, she doesn’t feel like they’re genuine enough to be worthy of praise. After their call she wrote more lyrics, and as she read them on her phone she felt a slight weight on her shoulders. She sang:

But if you’re still next to me, then how come all I feel is the— pain?

I thought that I amused you, but it looks like you’ll leave me— again.

Often times, Casey’s love songs would derail into something else entirely. Rarely would her love songs ever have a happy ending; she never felt like they were realistic. Whenever she would write a happy love song, she never finished it. However, even the sad songs were hard for her to make too. Writing the lyrics was one thing, but singing them and bringing the words into existence made the feelings real for her.

It’s— ruined. It’s ruined, after all. It��s— ruined.

I thought that you’d loved me but it’s— ruined.

As Casey sang, she felt the words in her soul. With each take she did, the more real these emotions became. She could never picture herself making a happy love song. She thought that real love was too far away for her.

Ooo — what could I do? What could I do—?

What could I say to convince you I’m all you ever needed?

I thought I finally had you. But, god, I’m so defeated.

Casey sang softly, with a whisper. The more takes she did, the more her singing turned to weeps. The weight felt heavier, like a large bird perched on her shoulders and whispered “shame” into her ear. She struggled to read the lyrics on her phone as hot tears welled up in her eyes. Her singing became strained. She stopped the recording and sniffled her nose. Casey wanted to take a moment. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sat silently in her chair. “Ok,” she whispered to herself, “I’m gonna wash my face.”

Casey buried her head deep into her sink as she splashed water onto her face. She had started to come down from her emotions. Her head was turned slightly away from the mirror as she dried her face off with a towel. In the corner of her eye she could see herself in the reflection. She stood still for a moment, and turned slowly towards herself in the mirror. It was the first time she had looked at herself in days. She examined her face.

Her dark brown hair only came down to her jaw — she wished it was longer. Her small eyes were slightly puffy, and her dilated pupils obscured the dark brown that was underneath. Her small, round nose was bright red from the crying. Her cheeks made her whole face look round, something that changed as she got older. She thought, “my weight seems to only go to my face, and never anywhere else on my body.” Small stubbles of facial hair were starting to appear below her chin and above her lips. She wanted to shave again. She felt a hot rush of emotions wash over her. It was a mixture of shame, embarrassment, sadness, and frustration. She spun her head away from the mirror, and looked out into her dark room. Casey grabbed her phone and wrote more lyrics. She sat down at her computer and sang:

I thought I’d be your real girl tonight. I thought I’d be your real girl tonight.

I thought I’d be a real girl tonight. I thought I’d be a real girl tonight.

Casey stopped the recording and sat silently in her chair for a while. She was starting to feel really tired. Her digital clock read six-thirty in the morning. Her parents were already awake. Her gaze darted toward her door as she heard her mother’s footsteps approaching the room. Her mom knocked lightly and asked, “Casey, honey, are you still awake?” There was silence for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. Her mother opened the door.

“Sweetheart, didn’t we talk about your sleep schedule yesterday?”

“We did, mom,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing, mom.”

“Can I turn on the light?”

Casey stayed silent. Her mother took that as a yes. When she turned on the light, Casey squinted her eyes as her mother came into view. They made eye contact for a moment, then Casey looked down at the floor. “Sweetheart, were you crying?” her mother asked.

“Yeah, like a little bit.”

“Did something happen?” she approached her.

“No, I’m just kinda tired.”

“But why are you up so late?”

“I was just working on something.” Casey pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her legs. Her mother could see the spots where she had nicked herself while shaving. She sat down across from her on the foot of her bed. “Are you just feeling sad tonight?” she asked.

“I guess.”

“Then how about you get some sleep, okay?”

“Ok, mom.”

Casey got up slowly from her chair. When she stood up she stumbled slightly and felt light headed. She didn’t realize how long she had been sitting. She lied down in her bed and covered her whole body in her sheets. Her mother walked toward the door and shut off the lights. “I’ll see you when I get home, ok?” she said.

“Ok, mom.”

“You’re my sweet girl, you know that?”

“Ok, mom.”

Her mother sighed. “Love you, Casey.”

“Love you too, mom.”

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