13 » Definition
After she had finished her homework, she curled up in her bed, contemplating the events of that day. No one had ever really noticed her before, and none had actually bothered to give her the time of day as Philip did. She wondered what it would be like to be part of a group of friends again, just like Philip, Kat, and Wayne. She wondered what it would be like to have someone love her for who she was.
Who was she? What made up her identity?
Was she that scared young girl during the incident? When it came down to life and death and usually at times lesser than that, she would easily be reduced to a frightened, trembling mess that barely resembled a human. She was not even sure if past experiences beyond her control defined her.
If she was defined by past actions that she had indeed done, then did that not mean that she was inherently evil? She had, after all, caused more harm than healing in her lifetime. By the end of it, the good that she will have done would be greatly outweighed by the bad, no matter how short she knew her life would be.
Perhaps the good that she would do was what made her who she was. If that was true, then was anything bad that she could have possibly done inconsequential? Also, if it was not her that committed evil acts, then who was it?
If her hobbies and interests defined her, what would she be if they were taken away? Of course, she would not know what to do if she did not have photography, but would that mean that she was nothing without it?
What defined a person?
She gazed blankly out her window, watching as the moon rose high in the sky.
If there was ever a moment that defined her, it would be the moment she walked into the small, unkempt apartment to discover him quietly livid, seated at the kitchen counter with a small mug of coffee.
She had gone out for a moment to throw out the trash and then had been gone for another half an hour to purchase the groceries for that week and then had been gone for another hour because the rising sun had cast such a perfect light on the high rise of the city that just demanded to be photographed. Not a thought of whether he had awoken had crossed her mind or even neared it at all, and she knew immediately upon discovering him that her mistake had been grave.
He was silent, not even bothering to glance up at her as she hastily picked up the groceries that were scattered on the floor.
Only after she had begun making brunch did he speak.
"You didn't tell me you were going out."
She froze, trying to force the words "I" and "apologize" out of her mouth but to no avail. She could feel their hands holding her jaw shut and covering her mouth so that she couldn't make a sound.
"You aren't even going to apologize," he continued, "you ungrateful brat."
The voices were closing in on her, taunting her from the darkness, edging closer and closer until they had her trapped, bound by the chains of her own evil.
"You ungrateful brat!" he spat again. "I don't want your pathetic excuses for meals. I've ordered some takeout; go pick it up. Here's the address." His hand, loosely pinching a scrap of paper between his finger and thumb, stretched toward her. The paper taunted her, daring her to reach out and grab it, but her hands wouldn't obey her.
Why are you still here?
She did not know if the voices had also made it impossible for her to speak or move, but, if they had, then they had done a good job of it.
Why don't you just die?
"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Are you rebelling against me? Why aren't you doing anything?"
Go die, will you?
"Hey, brat, I'm telling you to do something!"
"Leave them alone!"
Disgusted, he let the scrap of paper flutter to the floor. "Forget it. I'll go pick it up myself."
He grabbed a jacket and walked out the door, and the voices followed after him. She released a shaky breath, trembling hands reaching to throw away the paper. Once she had regained control of her senses, she tried to salvage what was left of the eggs she had been frying. There was no guarantee that he would share any of his food or even return to the apartment, after all.
There was also no way she was going to ask him to do so.
Perhaps what other people thought of her defined her. After all, that would be how she would be remembered when she was gone. What did her opinion matter, as fleeting as it was, in comparison to her memory, which would—hopefully—live on past her death?
She realized that she would not leave much of a memory to begin with as she quickly made her way to the bathroom. As the food forced its way up her throat, she prayed fervently that she would be given another chance to become a memory worth remembering.