I am a chameleon. 

Three days ago, the second appeared.  Now, she won't leave.  I want to like the attention, I really do, but it's too overwhelming.  And she won't stop giving me that look.  I just wish she'd leave me alone.  But it's like she's waiting for something, and she's so goddamn patient.

And I know what she's waiting for.

Yes, it will cause misery to those around me, but it won't be that bad.  After all, I blend in with the walls, I am already a ghost. 

They're out for the night.  Trisha made herself all pretty and put too much lipstick on.  She caked it on.  Her dress was long and black, too formal to be worn around our house.  It wrapped around her hips, hugging her perfect figure just right.

She is beautiful, and I'm invisible.  How can anyone see me next to her?

I ignore my sister's calls as my fingers dance on the bath water.  She can live for a few hours without attention.  Even if she doesn't, it's not like I'll get yelled at or arrested. 

The water feels so nice.  I breathe in the steam, forcing myself to smile.  The second is sitting on the sink, watching me, waiting.  I throw my unnatural, crooked smile at her.  She doesn't respond.

"Is this what you want?" I ask.  "If not, say no.  Or do something.  Otherwise, I'll just assume--"

She does nothing.

I think I'm nervous, but I can't tell.  It's like every part of my body is saying no; I swear my heart keeps beating faster and faster.  But I pick up the cool, metal razor anyway.  I feel so cliche, so normal, holding the thing in my hand. 

It's wailing in the other room, but I stay focused on my task.

"Okay," I say to the second.  "I'll see you soon, I guess."

When I look at her, her busted lip quivers into a small smile.  I really do hope I see her soon, but I also hope I can have time alone. 

It's not scary as I draw a thin, long line across my wrist.  I try to push harder, but my hand refuses to listen.  My entire arm is shaking.  My fingers are shaking.  I want to put the razor in my other hand, but I can't.  My wrist aches, I can barely feel anything as blood pours into my bath water.

I know it's not enough, but I don't have the will power to push down deeper.  I can't, I wish I can, but I can't.  So, right about it, I drag the blade across again.  Permanantly scarred in my death.

I'm sure my funeral will be empty.  I wonder how much my mom will cry; probably not much.  Although a part of me wishes she would cry a lot, along with everyone else.  They'd tell each other how sorry they were that they weren't nicer, or noticed me.  I smiled, imagining my short, bald English teacher sobbing from pity and remorse.  Maybe it won't be empty.

My wrist hurts, especially when water touches the open wounds.  But I don't mind the pain so much as the waiting.  The second is standing over me, now.  Her eyes sparkle with some thrill I don't recognize. 

This is it.  This is the end.  Death--the final to all stories.

But nothing is happening.  I feel a little hazy, but there's no "life flashing before my eyes".  Everything is just getting darker--but I don't feel death.  It's more of satisfaction.

The door to my apartment opens.  I hear my moms voice sing that their reservations got messed up.  She will find me, and I will have to look her in the eyes.

I am now begging for death.

The knob to the bathroom turns.  The second jolts up and disappears, leaving me with a pool of blood to face my mom.

Her little blonde head peaks in.  All I hear is a scream.

The End

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