'Dysfunctional: not operating normally or properly'
That was one way to describe Clara Campbells family. Dysfunctional; not operating properly. That was just what happened when your older siblings leave you.
Or that's what Clara had always believed...
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| Clara Campbell |
A cigarette sat between my lips, I leaned on the windowsill of the bedroom I had once loved to be in. I had eventually kicked Caleb out, telling him that I was going to have a shower then probably sleep. He begrudgingly left me on my own, and I hadn't seen or heard from anyone else.
I had watched cars come and go, for about 3 hours now, as I was on my third or fourth cigarette, I wasn't sure, as I had lost count after the second one. It felt good, being bad for once. I felt like I was back to the old me that I used to be, but I almost missed the girl that I had become, here in San Diego.
I had become an older version of the little girl that had once craved comfort from her brothers, but now, I despised them more than I had. I knew I shouldn't have, but I had tried so hard to give them a second chance. I had, but now, it seemed like they didn't want to do the same to me. None of them had stood up against Cameron, only me, which had just proven my point further.
For crying out loud, I had slapped my own brother. The same brother that had calmed me down from a panic attack in our old apartment, all those months ago. He was the one that could read me, but he didn't see it coming. None of them, had truly seen the person that I used to be, back in San Francisco, without them.
I had tried so hard to change and to not be so violent and grouchy all the time, but right now, that was all I was. I was just a younger version of my mother. It was going to happen to Mackenzie or I, and I guess it was me. I had copied and turned into exactly the person that I had promised myself that I never would be.
My mother is a horrible person, and no one should ever feel the need to tell themselves not to be like their mother, as a mother is someone who your children, specifically your daughters look up to, and not away from. I am honestly embarrassed and ashamed that I am the product of my parents, and that I am turning out to be exactly the person that I hate with my entire life.
I know I only slapped him, but that is how it all started. Slaps, is all it ever was, until it was a slight nudge that was harder than it should have been, then it was a kick, before a punch, then it became all three, from every angle. Scratches became scars, and bruises became blood on the floor. It all has to start somewhere, and continue.
I blew a last puff of air out, before I sighed, looking down to the packet, only to realize that it wasn't there anymore. The same packet that I had kept with me through everything. The edges were worn down and water damaged, but it was my packet. The first thing that I had bought myself, that truly showed how much older I was than everyone else my age.
Sitting up higher, my knees cracked from the movement, as I searched around, wondering if I had just nocked it off the windowsill, and onto the couch beside the window, but I hadn't. I climbed down from the windowsill, looking around the chair, only finding the packet to still not be there, making my breath pick up. It can't have gone that far, could it?
