where neither seraphim nor raindrops go

"But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run
And it wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out.
And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted,
All the time, all the time"
Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead

last edited April 26, 2009

In the weeks that follow, I ditch classes, avoiding my friends. I stay out late, getting home when it's dark out. I dye my hair black, watching as the dark colors bleed into my natural blond color. I wear dark clothes more often. I disregard authority, I jaywalk, I kick over trash cans. I feel bad ass.

I also feel empty.

The anger hasn't worn off. It leaves a residual feeling in me, like a glass once filled with orange juice. Before someone drank it all.

I use that residue to become someone I'm not. I'm not Mia anymore, and I don't think my parents are noticing. My mother sits at the head of the kitchen table, staring solemnly into space. If anyone tries to speak to her, she won't listen. But if you say the name Vincent, she cries. My father tries to pretend he's busy with his job, spending ridiculous hours at the office, only coming home late at night and leaving early in the morning. When he sees me he looks horrified, as if he can't believe that I'm still alive while the other one isn't.

Fuck that.

I don't care. They don't care. They care about Vincent, Vincent only.

Academic records are for squares. I could get my GED, drop out of school. Who needs to go to college? I hear people kill themselves there. No way I want that happening to me.

And screw all of the cops and the neighbors who glare at me from their stupid lawn chairs. It never used to bother me before, but now I see them and wonder why the feel the need to sit in folding chairs on their driveway and watch the neighborhood delinquent waste away into a soulless husk. Don't you have anything better to do with your lives?

"Hey!" Someone yells, voice hard and sharp. I glance up from the overturned trash can, meeting the eyes of some retired lawn-sitter. He glares at me from his pink and green striped chair, jowls heavy with age.

"Oh, get over it, old man," I say, and walk away. So what if your trash can is horizontal? My brother's six feet under. And I know that's not a good enough excuse and it makes me sound like a whiny little bitch, but I can't think of any other reason for it. My brother's dead. I'm allowed some kind of rebellion, right?

"You better watch it, or I'll call the authorities!" He shouts after me, and I imagine him shaking his pimp cane at me menacingly. What a hilarious old man.

"Yeah, you do that," I call over my shoulder, veering sharply into the street and cutting off a minivan carting five kids to soccer practice. I'm sure I look like a crook, a criminal to the driver, a middle-aged woman who regrets getting pregnant a sixth time. Just wait until one of them dies, lady, then you'll realize how hard raising a child can be.

A/N: This chapter is silly. And really short. Sorry, but you're going to have to deal with short chapters for a few days because the action is beginning to get all choppy and stuffs as Mia's guilt-slash-grief-slash-whatever progresses.

Anyway, I counted, and there's only gonna be about ten chapters. So the whole story should be posted by the middle of next week-ish.

Review if you're reading, please.