Bullets of Love and War

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Chapter 5

Sunday night, and I am dreadful of the next day. I try to shower away my problems, hoping to wash away my existence, but the shower doesn’t do that for me. I’m just clean now, and all the scars and bruises from the previous week are visible under the currents of water running over me. Somehow, I’m still dirty.

Stepping out of the shower, I dry myself off with the towel and really soak in how skinny I am. It’s probably because I barely eat. Sometimes I’m so depressed, food never really triggers my appetite.

And once I’m done agonizing the ghost white flesh shadowing my bones, I look up and am even more horrified by how my face looks.

I will not lie and say I’m necessarily ugly, but I just need help. If I was healthier and not internally and mentally depressed, then I would look better. Honestly, my parents are attractive people. Emily is a pretty little girl. She has mom’s golden looks, with her flowy blonde hair, the ocean blue eyes that darken when mad or sad. I have more of my dad’s appearance. We both have a sharp, foreign look to our facial features and that may be the German genetics running down my father’s bloodline. My hair is averagely short but long in the front, and the color is like a shiny honey enhanced with more yellow. I have large eyes that stare at me with a cold blueness that makes me sad. Overall, the genetic lottery went pretty well for us Mitchell’s, but I am not healthy enough to adhere to my true potential of handsome.

This makes me even more sad. I am a terrifying wreck, and no one notices. If they do notice, they don’t care. And I’m used to that.

I finish up my nightly routine of taking a shower and brushing my teeth and suddenly, I feel a little better. That party is off of me now. I watched it go down the drain.

I’m on my way to going to bed when I spot my little sister sitting on it. She looks at me with soft eyes, and I know she is her mother’s child.

“Do you feel okay?” she asks me.

I feel as if everything everyone says in this house is always targeted at my well-being. On the outside I do no effort in hiding this. I kind of want them to see.

My plea for help is urgent.

Staring deep into her eyes, I remain still as I croak, “I’m fine. What are you doing in here?”

Without answering me, she hops off my bed and comes over to me slowly. She stops at my stomach - as I stand at a solid 5′7 - and looks up to me with baby eyes. She is so precious, and I do everything not to break down.

“I know you feel misunderstood,” she tells me, voice as soft as cotton. “but just know that I know. Closeting yourself is only gonna drive you crazier.”

My little sister comforts her older brother. Where do we find people like that from?

And then she hugs me. Genuinely.

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