The Burden

The palms of my hands rested on the edge of the counter as I stare at myself in the mirror. My wavy, brunette curls stopping just at the top of my shoulders. With the lighting in this bathroom, I can see the small ringlets of orange around the pupils of my eyes, the black of my leather jacket making them stand out.

You can’t get in a fight today. That would only make today worse than it already is. You will not let her get you riled up. Not today. Especially not today, of all days. I think to myself, glaring at my reflection, like I might scare it into doing as I say. Do it for him. You got this. You can do this. Just ignore her, and nothing will happen. Everything will turn out fine.

I continue to glare at myself, having an internal battle. The angel on my shoulder telling me to be the bigger person, to ignore her, to let the things she says fly right over me. But the demon on the other shoulder, well she’s just telling me to walk right up to that conniving little bitch and kick her ass. Taking in an overly exaggerated deep breath, I pick up my books from the counter, and exit the bathroom to walk to my locker.

Some like to think that Southridge High School is a place for adolescents to come and learn, to be happy, and free ⎯ they couldn’t be farther from the truth. While, technically, it is an institution for teens to get an education, it is also an extremely old, run down, piece of garbage. Literally. The dark blue lockers that sit at both sides of the walls are topped with dust and just big enough to fit a baby in them. The beige paint on the walls is chipped beyond repair.

There are even some holes in the walls that rats and mice have now decided to make their home; it has become a common occurrence to see some scampering through the halls and in classrooms. A few have made habit of falling through the ceilings and scaring the shit out of whoever’s desk they land on. I feel a chill of disgust and fear run up my spine as I recall one of those occurrences taking place in my Calculus class. I kick an empty milk bottle out of my way, adding it to the pile of trash that continues to litter the halls of this wretched school and finally come across my locker, a wave of relief rushing through my body.

The relief doesn’t last long, however. As I’m unloading my books, I hear a series of heels clacking on the tiled floor and feel an unwanted presence behind me. A sickly sweet perfume which smells of cherry blossoms that have dreadfully, and unfortunately drowned in alcohol invades my space.

A terrible, nasally voice cuts through the splendid silence, “Olivia, what are you doing here?” I can hear the smirk in her voice as she smacks her gum between her teeth.

I roll my eyes and continue to pack my bag, “I could ask you the same question. It’s pretty late for you to be here after school. I’d expect you to be out shopping with some of Daddy’s credit cards.”

“Oh, Livvy,” fake sincerity rolls off of her in tsunami-like waves. “You underestimate me. I just wanted to come and ask how you were holding up. I know today must be a hard day for you.”

My jaw clenches and I feel anger and distaste run through me like an electric shock. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to contain myself. Not today. Not today. I chant repeatedly in my mind, Do it for him. Control yourself, for him. Today is about him, not you.

I turn around with a sarcastic smile, lifting my bag’s strap around my right shoulder, “Thank you oh-so much, Beatrice. The fact that you care enough to check up on me,” I bring my left hand to my chest, “It just…” I sigh, “It really makes my day.” I pause, my hand dropping and my face becoming hard and emotionless, “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” my voice is coated with heavy hatred and annoyance as I try to make my way past the devil incarnate and her wannabe mini-me’s, “I need to get going.”

She grabbed my arm, keeping me in my place, “But Livvy, how are you, really? I mean, knowing that two years ago today, is the day of your father’s death.”

Guilt ran through me as I thought of the day it had happened, but I shook it off. I am not letting her see me with my guard down. “I’m just peachy, Beatrice. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I repeat and try to escape her grasp, but she only tightens it.

“Where are you going, Livvy?” My five-foot-six frame towers over her much shorter body. Which is mostly fake. Fake tan, fake nose, fake blonde hair. She is a walking Barbie doll.

“I don’t see why it’s any of your concern. However, what may actually concern you is the fact that you smell like you decided to bathe in cheap, girly beer,” she gasps, “You might wanna go home… Possibly take a shower… But, before you go out in public, you should touch up your eyebrows; they’re starting to come off.” She gasps once more, bringing a hand to her forehead, attempting to cover her brows while I try not to laugh.

By now, any stragglers that had decided to stay after school, whether for sports or to study, were forming around us. Great, I think, now I will definitely have to control my temper.

“At least I didn’t kill my father.” Beatrice smirks. Her entire demeanor changing within seconds. She was standing proudly, a sinister smirk placed across her lips.

My hands form into fists of fury, and I use all of my strength not to use them on her. “Excuse me?” My voice is low, dangerous.

Beatrice’s smirk only deepens at my sudden indignation. She crosses her arms, shrugging, “You heard me. I said, ‘At least I didn’t-’”

I can’t take it anymore. I hit her. Not one of those puny, girly-ass slaps to the cheek that barely leave a mark. No, this hit was a full swing, as much strength as I could muster, punch. Right to the nose. She stumbles into one of her followers, causing them to lose balance as well. They both tumble to the ground, as gasps and whispers spread through the air like a wildfire in a forest. But, I ignore all of the sounds. I ignore all of the spectators. I ignore the two minions. I am just focused on Beatrice.

She whines, attempting to get back up off of the filthy floor, but I stop her. I climb on top of her, holding her by her hair as I throw punch, after punch, screaming at the top of my lungs. Anger, bitterness, loathing, the negative emotions pumping through me like adrenaline.

Blood starts to ooze out of her busted face. The open crevices of skin on her cheekbones becoming bigger with each hit she takes, as I repeat my actions over and over. I’m not aiming for a specific place, I’m punching anywhere I could, her face is my only target. Her eye is already turning to an odd purplish black color, her nose most definitely broken.

People try to grab my arms and pick me up, but I won’t let them. I stay in my spot, continuing to use Beatrice as my personal punching bag. Unfortunately for me, a group of people get together, prying me off of the body that looked like it had been torn to shreds. Her nose is bent in an odd direction, her matted hair is all over the place; especially in the back, where I had clutched it to keep her from running. Blood trickles down her face slowly as she groans, rolling over.

“Get off of me!” I scream, while struggling to get free, “Let me go! I had her! Let me go at her again! Let go of me!”

The stranger carrying me has my back to his chest. My feet dangle in the air as I kick and scream some more, “Let go of me! Nobody likes her anyways! I’m doing everyone a favor!” As I fight back against the person holding me, I catch a small glimpse of a few other people walking alongside us, but I pay no attention to them. All I cared about was getting out of this boy’s grasp.

My captor turns a corner and starts heading towards the direction of the girls bathroom I had come out of earlier, “Stop struggling.” He says through gritted teeth, his hold on me tightening.

I turn as much as I could in his arms until my elbow met was met with a hard impact and I hear a low grunt escape his mouth. “Let. Me. Go.” I repeat.

I hear him chuckle, “Not after that.”

“After what? Punching the ‘queen bee’? Or doing your poor little body some damage?” Attitude laces my voice with a very strong veil.

“Both,” he replies simply.

I groaned and continue to struggle, kicking him in the balls. He drops me instantaneously, and I let out a sigh of relief before running as fast as my legs would take me. I hear people yelling at me to stop, but I push forward, never looking back. I run all the way through town, not stopping for a moment to catch my breath until I reach my destination.

I finally slow as I enter the large field of headstones and flowers, turning my sprint into a light jog, continuing until a very familiar headstone comes into view. The words “Daniel Black, a loving husband and father,” are engraved in a nice, neat font, the years he was alive printed below. I fall to my knees, placing my forearms on the top of the headstone, and begin to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I sob, my shoulders shaking as I do so. Guilt makes its way through my entire body, “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have called you that night. I should’ve just walked home, like you said before ⎯ like you told me to. I should’ve listened. We wouldn’t have been in that crash if it weren’t for me,” I repeat the words “I’m sorry,” and “It’s all my fault,” over and over again, as I cry and cry.

After a few hours of mumbling “I’m sorry,” and talking about useless things with my father, I walk home, sniffling all the way there.

Is he disappointed? Is he looking down at me right now, with a look of shame? This isn’t who I was. I was captain of the track team. I had the best of friends. I could never stop talking, or participating in extracurriculars. Now… I just hide away in my room, hide in the shadows. I don’t talk. I never see those friends… A tear slides down my face as I look to the ground. I wonder what he thinks. I wonder what he thinks of me, the new me. He probably does blame me for the crash, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were to say it to my face. This time, a sob escapes my mouth as I seal my eyes shut, trying to stop the negative thoughts from continuing in my mind. But, they don’t stop. They keep running, running at full speed. My mind is a jumbled mess. He would be so disappointed. It is my fault.

As soon as I walk through the door, my mother races to me, with worried questions about where I was and why I didn’t call, but I ignore her. I feel bad for doing so, but the overbearing weight of guilt and self-hate was too strong. I pass my mother, not even sparing her a glance, before making my way to my room.

Falling onto my bed without changing into more comfortable clothes or cleaning up my busted, bloody knuckles, I curl into a ball and weep.

Just as I’m about to be saved by sleep, I hear a soft knock.

“Olivia, sweetie,” my mother calls, her muffled voice full of understanding, “Do you want to talk?”

I sniffle, looking at my bedroom door.