Authors: Nessa Morgan
Tags: #young adult, #flawed, #teen read, #perfectly flawed
Copyright 2013 Nessa Morgan
Published by Nessa Morgan at Smashwords
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Table of Contents
To my best
friend, Erin, because she’s suffered through every story I’ve
wanted to tell but never had the chance to finish. She’s suffered
through inevitable cliffhangers that have never been resolved and
she still wanted to read more. I love her like a sister. TWIB!
And to my mother for not saying, “Well, what
are you going to do with a Creative Writing Degree? Maybe you
should stick with Law.” I love you Mom!
The dark, seemingly hollow world sucks me into its
vortex almost instantly. It traps me within its icy depths and
steals what remaining soul I have. I fight—I claw my way to
freedom. Or try. Losing blood and hope as my fragile, struggling
body—climbing—nears the hazy, clouded surface but it is almost a
fruitless effort—a pointless attempt to succeed where I know,
without a single doubt, that I have failed before.
Some part of me knows that I belong here,
trudging along in a mindless daze, in this despondent place where
things seem to die. Some part of me knows that, no matter how hard
I try, I will always wind up here, in this hole of hopeless dreams
and lost moments, faded memories and recycled puzzle pieces that no
longer seem to fit.
But some part of me wants to fight—a tiny
part that wants to bear its claws—but knows that a losing battle is
all that I will face.
Forget this place and forget this world.
How long before my world, the only place that
I have ever known, ever remembered, ever
crashing down into nothing but shards and pieces? How long before I
finally discover what lurks, creeps, and haunts in the shadows of
this dark, shallow cavern covered in shadows. Whatever it is, I
know that it’s waiting for me—for the wrong turn it knows that I’ll
When it finally reveals itself to me, which I
know it will—will the surprise shock me?
Will it even be a surprise?
Will they even find me?
What the hell am I asking? Of course they’ll
find me, the question is: How long?
How long? How long do I have? How much longer
before I truly know my demons, before I truly understand them. Meet
them face to face.
When do I meet them and discover
deep dark secrets, since they know all of mine? Will they look like
me—scared and shaking, resembling the image I try to ignore in the
mirror—or will they take on an image all their own, yet still
resembling the material things that terrify me in the real
I’m scared to admit it, even while in deep
subconscious, but these are the things I fear I’ll never know;
these are also the things I hope I never gain the chance to
When I feel like I may win, like my pain and
struggle was worth it, I’ll know I’ve learned something useful,
I can feel the morning air, cold and moist,
against the soft skin of my exposed cheek, and I know that I have
once again; everything changes. Suddenly, I am
floating—no, sinking. The sensation of cold water surrounding me,
suffocating me, shoving me beneath the crazy, wild waves of the
dark abyss in this empty place. I almost let it take me because I
want to give up, I don’t want to fight anymore. I almost let it
overcome me and conquer me, its strength stealing me down to the
rocks on the bottom, the rocks that will surely poke and prod me
until I am nothing more than a useless lump of muscle and bone.
Slowly, my will to fight, to swim against the strong
can save me—kicks in, and I try to
succeed. I try to be better than… whatever
I am strong.
And it’s no longer water I’m fighting. I am
As my hand reaches into the foggy light,
muted from the clouds hovering low enough that I think of touching
it, I stretch into the bright world I know I belong within,
reaching for the safety of what I know. I can feel the air around
me grow heavier and heavier. Gravity takes effect; it succeeds at
its purpose, its reason for being, and drops me quickly and
painfully back to the earth, letting me collide, with a soft,
, into the moist flesh that is dirt hidden
beneath a canopy of twisting, decayed trees.
My eyes crash open, seeing the dark clouds
suspended above me, hiding me from something scary and strange.
With a breath, I’m alive.
Another nightmare wakes me in the gray early morning.
Not the one that leaves you screaming in the wee morning hours
while you thrash violently about in your bed, but that one that
leaves a sour taste in the back of your mouth and a heavy feeling
of dread surrounding you, landing like a stone in your gut. If only
I could remember them—these nightmares. If only I could remember
the things that terrify me, the monsters under the bed, the creepy
things that bump in the night. Something has to answer the raging
questions in my head, the unanswerable questions banging around and
colliding like ping-pong balls in my brain.
Sitting up, I feel the sheets sticking to my
damp arms and legs. I can feel the sweat pouring down my forehead,
gliding into my eyes and clouding my already-blurry vision usually
aided by spectacles. My head is pounding, my brain is throbbing—the
early stages of a headache working its way behind my eyes, my
body’s evil way to keep me awake in the morning when I only want to
fall back asleep.
I must have had some dream.
If only I could remember it—any of it—or any
of the others. Some small, minute fraction of color, some
insignificant blip in the radar, any sound, any word,
would be helpful. But nothing remains in the deep
dark cavern of my la la land.
My hand instinctively reaches to grasp the
platinum chain around my neck, the one that holds the circular
locket dangling from my neck, the locket that houses the faces of
my family. One my palm, I can feel the pressure of the owl against
my skin, permanently marking me for the rest of the day as I
tightly squeeze the piece of jewelry. The mark will fade, it always
does, but I’ll still feel it within my skin. I lift the locket to
my lips, gently kissing it, before quickly releasing it from my
grip and letting the locket fall against my chest where it
I’d rather be in bed, but I fight the urge.
After grabbing some clothes for the day, I slowly trudge to the
shower to start my usual morning routine. I stand beneath the
stream of scalding hot water, letting it pound against my sensitive
flesh. I can feel the top layer of skin, the thin sheen of sweat I
collected through the night, washing away just like the nonexistent
remains of the dream. Or nightmare. I should really use correct
terms. It leaves me bare and vulnerable—exposed, if you will.
While the shower itself doesn’t make me feel
clean, not completely, it does make me feel
It makes me feel as if I can face the world in the upcoming hours
with a fresh slate—a new canvas. As damaged as I am, I feel that I
can accomplish anything right now.
The feeling usually fades within the
After towel-drying and covering myself in
cherry blossom scented body lotion, the something I do every
morning, I drape the green towel over the metal bar screwed into
the wall and grab my neatly folded clothes from the counter,
dressing myself as I avoid the gaze of morning-me in the mirror.
It’s never a pretty sight.
The weekend, sadly, is over and I start the
second week—first full five-day week—of school today. It’s just
another typical day—another day where I am the school freak, the
junior class psycho, or any variation of the terms, or any new
words that you want to add in, it all works around here.
I tug on my clothes, taking in the feel of
the fabric against my steamed skin. My jeans are tight and the air
hits my legs through the large frayed hole in the knee and the
randomly placed frayed spots running up and down my legs. I never
understood the purpose of paying for already-ruined jeans, but I
bought them nonetheless just to join the trend and conform, to
better blend into the masses. My white camisole against my skin;
the soft worn fabric soothing as it rubs against my stomach,
covering the blemishes I refuse to show the world. I quickly cover
the white with a black tank top.
As I correct the fall of the clothing and
smooth out any wrinkles, I check the reflection in the mirror. I
don’t feel right. Not completely. But I try to ignore the
uncomfortable feeling looming over me like the shadow of a tall
building. I won’t feel like myself, I’ll never feel like myself.
I’ve grown to accept that. I’m not even sure what
supposed to feel like—I just know that I won’t feel
for a long, long time. Maybe not ever. To be honest, since my aunt
took me in, some part of me felt distant, some part of me felt
misplaced, forgotten, and corrupted, or, for lack of a better word,
Dead like my mother. Dead like my sister and
brother. Dead like the people that cared for me, the people that
loved me, the people that were taken—stolen—from me. Dead like I’m
supposed to be.
Just dropped a bomb on you, didn’t I?
Now, there may be questions running rampant
in your mind right about now.
Why am I
the junior class psycho
, you may be wondering.
I the appointed freak
—I think there was even a vote one
wandering through the halls repelling those who believe
themselves to be the pretty and popular
, you could ask. You
know, the people that wish or demand that everyone else notice
but we only pay attention because we thrive on
humiliation when it eventually finds them.
Sorry, that was a bit of a tangent.
But since you asked
easier to start from the beginning… or at least nine years ago.
My father decided one drab and dreary night
to take the largest, sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer—the
drawer that none of us kids were allowed to open because it had
and stab my mother, the woman he supposedly
loved, in the throat while she quietly slept. The woman he promised
to love and cherish, for richer and poorer, for better or worse,
until death do they part. He just killed her, threw her away, as if
she didn’t matter. As if she never mattered.
I don’t know about anyone else, and I haven’t
been married, but I don’t think the vows allow for the husband to
take the matter into his own hands, even if he isn’t happy or
It’s pathetic, really.
I’m sorry, is this too gruesome for you?
Just wait. Like everything else in my screwed
up little world, it gets worse.
Then, dear old Dad walked down the hall,
entered the pretty little purple bedroom, and sliced my older
sister’s throat. She was ten years old, she hadn’t even seen fifth
grade yet. In my sister’s hands, she still clutched her favorite
Cabbage Patch doll, one that looked exactly like her because they
did that back then despite how creepy it really was. Then, across
the hall, he skewered my older brother in the stomach while he
slept on Power Ranger sheets in a room covered in trucks. He
worshipped the Power Rangers and loved toy trucks and never hurt
anyone, not in his life. Neither my sister.