Kidnapped: My Teacher-Mate*** NEWLY-EDITED VERSION OF THIS STORY IS CAPTUM.

Chapter Two: The New Kid

I woke up to the same nightmare that I did last night, and the night before. You'd think one would grow used to such a routine, closing their eyes to succumb to the rawness, the reality of such a nightmare. Still, I fight to keep hold of the pieces of me as they chip away with every recollection.

Preparing myself proved just as futile as the former. Still, I try. My mother always told me she's never heard of nothing coming from hard work.

I am not going through this alone. Though I once thought it something my therapist wanted me to remember in times of trouble, it's true. I have a support system -- or, more specifically, a person that went through the motions just as I did. Harbors some form of a nightmare pertaining to that damned day. Contrary to your average troubled protagonist, though, I plan on turning to them -- when things get bad again.

This, this isn't bad. At least, it isn't to me.

And with that, I push my covers back, rising to face the day.

Sluggishly, I made my way towards the bathroom, and began with my daily routine of brushing my teeth, and washing my face. I don't quite know what possessed me to do so, but, with a breathy sigh, I lifted my gaze to my reflection.

Look at mommy's beautiful girl. She's just brilliant, isn't she?

In one-hundred words or less, yes.

Clear blue eyes roll upwards at the silly exchange between her parents, before the five-year old turns her attention to the handheld mirror once more.

I clung to that memory for the brief moment it took me to wander back into my room, and dress myself mindlessly. Though my eyelids drooped, half-lidded in exhaustion, the soft curve of my lips wasn't something so easily mistaken.

It isn't that I don't smile. That I'm sad, or, as some like to infer, depressed.

No, my father and his checkbook make sure of this.

See? I can make jokes. I can laugh. I can smile. But things were getting... not so good again. And I know I should be thankful for what I have, like a roof over my head, the clothes on my back... because in earlier, simpler times, humans were content with the bare necessities. But another thing that I am grateful for is my feelings, which I exercise more frequently as I near the anniversary of my mother's death:

I'll admit it, I am sad. My therapist says it's healthy to be sad sometimes, so.

The delicious aroma that wafted past my open door jarred me from my thoughts, smile only broadening as I pluck my bag off the floor and start down the steps, to the kitchen.

There were three people in this world - four, if you count the afterlife - that can lift me from the lowest of lows. Most of the time, it's unintentional, which only makes me thankful to have them beside me in such times of trouble.

One, my father, and his special chocolate-chip pancake spatula.

Two, my boyfriend, math puns and all.

Third, my best friend, and her love (obsession, with a capital EVERYTHING) for a specific Canadian pop star.

Fourth...

I pondered the importance of someone that's been absent in my life for the better of ten years or so, as I shoved the first forkful of fluffly, chocolate-y, chip(py?) goodness in my mouth upon pulling up a seat at the table. Once I cleared my plate and washed it in the sink, I determined she's just as prevalent mentally as she would be, should be, physically.

"Morning, sleepy-head." I'm jarred from my thoughts a second time after I whip around and my father presses a kiss to my forehead, my knee-jerk reaction consisting of a mumbling of my own 'good morning,' and a kiss to his cheek as I gather my things to leave.