• xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHow did I get here again? If this happens every time we get dumped, might as well jump now. I look down at the floor, a good ten feet below me. I sit on a railing that surrounds the upper part of our stage craft room. It's the part of the room that we put the props in. Below me is nothing but paint splattered cement. It's automatic for me, when I'm upset I find stairs and climb them. The stairs that led to this part of the stage craft room were the most private place in the school. It was funny how little people tended to look up when they were in here.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxNever mind the fall wouldn't kill us. It might only break a leg. And we know how much you hate pain. I snort, a twisted smile without any humor, sneaking onto my face. The burns on my arms stung in a reminding kind of way, the lighter burning a hole in my pocket. Ok, it's only blood. No blood for you. And knowing you, when you break a leg it's going to bleed all over the place. So don't jump. Maybe there's a rope. How painful do you think hanging yourself would be? Don't be stupid, I tell myself.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMy inner voice is the type of girl to see someone standing on the roof of a building and scream at them to jump, and she had turned on me. Now would that be suicide or homicide if I kill you? I shake my head at the absurd thought. Of course the malicious voice is really just my own thoughts, but sometimes they are so wildly out there that it felt like another person. Maybe you're schizophrenic? It's very helpful, always looking to throw in a piece of advice or question the reality of real life.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMaybe we should jump. Just to see if anyone would regret it. With the last week running and shrieking through my mind, I almost had to agree. It would almost be worth it, figuring out if anyone really would miss me. Assuming you could come back after. Which we both know you can't. Unless we don't die. But if there's an afterlife, maybe we could watch the reactions from there. I sigh and absently rub my arm, pressing my thumb into the first burn I had ever gotten. How did I get here again?
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxA tear pulls free from my eye and I let it run down my cheek unchecked, dragging my carefully applied eyeliner with it. It wasn't my first tear shed that day, and I doubt it will be my last. He had hurt me, worse than any guy before him, even worse than Jacob, even worse than Ga- Don't. Don't say his name. Pick a different name and call him that. If you hear his name you'll start crying, and I'm tired of your whimpering.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI chuckle until I break into sobs and put my face in my hands. The movement shakes my balance and I tilt forward. I silently scream and throw myself backwards, too hard and I fall into the prop room, sending wheel chairs rolling and landing violently on my arm against the corners of lockers we had made for a play last fall. I slide down onto the floor of the room and curl into a fetal position. See? I knew we weren't suicidal. Stop sniveling. No more crying over stupid boys. But he isn't the only reason I'm crying. I knew it, my thoughts knew it, but it was so much easier to blame it on him. He was the straw that broke the camel's back. Assuming that you look anything like a camel, which let me tell you, you don't. I sighed and giggled, another sob working its way into the small laugh. How did I get here?
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI lie on my side and listen to the door open and close as someone walks into the room. I listen as their footsteps echo through the room, bouncing off concrete floor and brick walls. I tense as I hear them get near the stairs; bite my lip when they stopped there.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"Abby?" my whispered name echoes through the room.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI choke back a sob. I can't match the voice to a name, but I don't think anyone can do that, not in real life. I'm sure it isn't his though. That means he doesn't care where I went. The footsteps walk away from the stairs, go in a circle around the room. I roll, quiet enough that the person below me doesn't hear and look under the table and through the railing. She steps into my line of sight, eventually, where I can see the back of her head. It's Amanda, her dark brown hair with natural highlights hanging just below chin length. She would be the one to look for me. She had been my friend since kindergarten, and when I went to a private high school instead of the same one she went to, we kept in touch. I had moved back for senior year though, after... No. Stop thinking about him.
    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI watched as Amanda turned, glanced around, sighed, and finally shook her head before leaving. I heard her say "She's not there" before the door closed behind her. So she's not the only one looking for you. That's good isn't it? I shivered and rolled back to my other side, nearly crying out when my forehead hit the edge of something wooden and very, very, solid. I sniff and press my wrist to my mouth, tying to smother the resulting sob. How did I get here? I close my eyes and bite down on the jacket, scrunching my eyes at the taste of the cotton, but leaving it there. I whimper, the noise muffled by both my hand and the jacket material, my back shaking with the sobs, and tears escaping my eyes. I'm sure I look like a complete mess, but it doesn't seem that important anymore. I let the sobs rock me and murmur lullabies to myself. It'll be ok, it'll be ok.