My eyes fluttered open softly from the sound of a door closing downstairs. It was the same routine every day. My aunt would get up, get dressed, and go to work. She'd come back around seven, make us dinner, watch some tv, go to bed, and expect me to do the exact same.

It was repetitive. I didn't want to go to school today either, but I knew I had to. Twelve years old, in the middle of puberty, I lived with my sore, unmarried, cold aunt. After my parents died, she was the only relative available.

I hated it here. I missed my old friends. I missed my old life. I used to be so happy, but now I dreaded every single day. My hair felt greasy as I ran my hands through them. I didn't feel like showering, but maybe showering would mean one snide remark less today, so I dragged myself to the shower. 

Her whole house was big. It was some sort of farm-turned-house. I hated it here. It smelled like hay. It felt like one of those houses they'd feature on paranormal movies. The floor was always a bit too dirty. She owned millions of useless things. She never seemed to throw anything away. She left just enough space for you to move around, but she made sure that in every corner you'd look, you wouldn't miss her useless, ty stuff. If I could, I would've burned the whole place down. 

I became unbelievably bitter after they died. I started smoking last month. I just wanted to try it out. Some neighbourhood boys offered me one, so I took it. I rolled it around my fingers for a little while before I lit it. I had to cough really hard. They had to laugh. I don't think they were mocking me.

I stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water to hit my skin harshly. The water was at dangerous heath. I didn't care. Maybe I'd burn to death before class would start. 

I remember that my mother would smoke every now and then too. My father always said he hated it. When she lit one, he would childlishly swat his hands around, fake coughing, yelling things like ''ew, you're disgusting!''. My mom would just ignore him and walk to the balcony. 

They were undeniably in love with each other. I saw my mom everytime I looked in the mirror. I broke one the other day. My aunt didn't say anything.

Stepping out of the shower, I threw on my uniform and blow dried my hair. It was colder in here than my old place. I never went swimming anymore. The accident left an ugly scar in my neck. I hated it. I hated looking at myself. I hated my own skin. I hated my selfishness. I hated every single thing about myself. I wish I had died with them in that crash. My life felt purposeless, but I didn't have the courage to end it.

Locking the door behind me, I slowly walked to school. With every step, I felt emptier and emptier. The kids there were cruel. They didn't understand, nor did they try to. I didn't want to go there.

They'd tell me I was ugly, that I was fat, that I smelled, that I was stupid, that I was cheap. They'd steal my stuff. They'd push me. They'd ignore me. They'd steal my homework. They'd make me clean up their stuff.

And I just took it all. I though I deserved it. After my parents dying, this uneasy feeling had planted itself in my stomach. I didn't know what to do anymore. It felt like the only way I could live again, the only way I could understand life, the only way I could enjoy it again, was for them to reappear in my life. But they wouldn't, and it was my fault. 

Not a day passed by where I didn't regret what I had said to my father that day. I knew they'd do anything I'd ask them. If I had said don't go, we would have stayed in. But I asked my dad to go. I wanted to go. I actively participated in the universes plan to kill my parents.

In two years' time I had grown a lot. I had matured fastly. I felt alone very often, but my classmates weren't sympathetic to my situation, and my aunt had been so secluded from other people that she was just anti-social. Maybe she'd always been like that, and I knew that deep down she probably hated me for killing my parents, and she probably hated my mom for being the more succesful sister, the one that fell in love and got married and had a child, the one with a loving family, the one that her parents always preferred over the other. 

I walked into my classroom, and everyone immediately fell silent. Then, the whispering started. I sat down in my seat, unpacked my books, and proceeded to turn my head to look outside the window. It was a warm summer day, similar to the one when my parents died. I felt the undeniable urge to go outside and eat ice cream. Ice cream reminded me of everything nice I used to have right in the palms of my hand.

Maybe it was my own fault. I hadn't really tried to make friends either when I first came here. I wasn't really that interested in boys, I didn't know if that was normal for someone my age. The girls here didn't seem nice either, I'd rather not talk to them. They seemed scary.

I wish there'd be just one person, one friendly face, so maybe they'd save me, and maybe I'd be normal and happy again. But is that possible? Could someone really save you? My knees were burning hot with the ammount of times I had spent praying. I used to pray every day. I'd pray for my parents, and for my classmates, I'd pray for fun, for happiness, and in the hospital, I had prayed for my parents to wake up.

But they didn't. They were dead. And if God really existed, he had a lot of explaining to do to me.

The shrill sound of the bell ringing filled my ear. I got up. I wasn't planning on going to my next class. I was going to go home, get dressed, and get some ice cream.