That is not my body.

There is no way that I could've thrown myself out the window and still be right up in the safety of my own room.
Safe, hah.

But, I'm staring down at a mangled girl sprawled across the curb.  Her brown hair is matted with blood and her arm is lying limp in the street.  A car runs over it and I feel myself wince. 

She's gone.  Just like that, she disappears.  She--I had no right to be there in the first place.  My fingers traced my closed window.

"Lydia!" Great.  She finally decides to come in. 

"Knock much?" I sound so typical, so normal.  It fools her.  She's not frightened by fact I was staring down at the empty street.  Then again, she doesn't know what I just saw.  Or maybe she didn't care.

"What are you doing?  Turn your lights off," she snaps.  Ah, Trisha.  Such a young woman, much too young to be the mother of a 17 year old.  But she is, and I think I make her feel old.
It's okay, though.  She has her new baby.  Maybe now she won't have to worry about someone calling her "mother" in public.


"Sorry," I try to sound appologetic, although the sarcasm sings right off my tongue.  She catches it, but doesn't say anything after that.  She just closes my door and walks out.  How rude, I said sorry after all. What did it matter if I meant it or not?  Aren't teenagers supposed to be mean to their mothers? 

Exhaustion sneaks up on me and I somehow stumble towards my bed.  Fantastic, I forgot to change my sheets again.  It's too late to go to the closet now, I'd wake the precious thing across the hall.  She sleeps enough, anyway.  I don't know why they insist to let it sleep all the time.
I like that--it.

I collapse on the bed.  It's hard under me, but I'm used to it by now.  Surprisingly, it's comfortable.  Maybe it's callouseness reminds me of my own--if that's what you could call it. 

"Come on," I want to shout, but it's just a whisper.  "Sleep.  Just fall asleep."  Maybe I won't wake up.

I decide to set an alarm on my phone for 2:19 AM.  Maybe I can see a shooting star, finally.  But I doubt it.  2:19 was the time I was born, and everything pleasant repells from me.

I sigh as my mind drifts back to that poor dead hamster. 

"Okay," my voice is a little louder, but I can barely hear it myself.  "Time to sleep."

Insomnia; it's a beautiful thing.

Four hours go by, my eyes are so tired.  But they won't close.  It's okay, though.  I count all the times I hear that disgusting thing across the hall cry out or make some awful noise.  Most of it is pain; a yearning for attention.  No one answers her--it.


There I go with that good thing again.  What is that? 

And then I fall asleep.  I never dream; to dream is to live in the real world.  Sometimes I doubt my existance.
I do, however, see that girl again--me.  Lying on the concrete, so peaceful, so pure.  No more troubles for her, and I'm jealous.  But that's all, it's not much of a dream. 
More like a memory.

The End

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