Soul Searching

Chapter Seven

"It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone."
-Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

"Before we start the movie, Melanie," Mrs. Hopkins said, "we need to talk."

Melanie tensed, sensing what was about to come. "About what?"

"Your father called; your mother is in the hospital."

Melanie didn't have the energy to jump up. She stared blankly. "What?"

"He said she tripped and knocked over a vase; tore her hands all up."

Melanie wanted to laugh. She swallowed it and looked down, fiddling with her thumbs.

"She didn't trip," she mumbled quietly.

"Hmm?"

"When can I see her?"

"Philip said now might not be the best time. She's getting stitches."

Mrs. Hopkins knew something was up. Melanie should be jumping up and running by now.

"What's wrong, Melanie?"

"I...nothing."

Hopkins frowned. "Why did you come here tonight?"

Melanie cleared her throat, wishing she was invisible. "Nothing's wrong. I promise."

"Melanie, it's the day after your ninth birthday. You've been talking about it forever. I expected you to be running around, jumping for joy. But you're depressed. Melanie Dumont is never depressed. She's a dancer and a reader and a singer and a writer. She's happy."

She was going to cry again. She drew in a shaky breath, her lower lip quivering. "I...no. Nothing's wrong!"

"Melanie."

She burst into tears.

The sobs racked her whole body. But this time, she had someone to hold her, to tell her it was okay.

But it would never be okay.

"Everything's so bad," she choked out through the sobs, wrapping her arms around her legs, "Mother...Mother...never mind."

"Melanie, you need to tell me."

Melanie shook her head. "I...I can't. It's okay."

Mrs. Hopkins didn't press the matter; she was a little afraid to. If something made Melanie cry, it was horrible.

"If you're sure."

"I am."

Mrs. Hopkins sighed and pressed play on the television. They sat in silence, and Melanie didn't act as excited as she usually did.
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Melanie had trouble falling asleep that night. She tossed and turned, nightmares playing out in her head.

You're nothing, Melanie. Absolutely nothing, voices told her, swirling around in her mind. She pushed them out and focused on something to tether her: a future.

I'll be a dancer. I'll live in a huge house, with the perfect husband: dark-haired and dark-eyed, tall, loving and gentle. We'll have perfect kids. A boy and a girl-hopefully they're twins-that are the even combination of the both of us. We'll love them so much, just as much as we love each other. They'll be taken good care of. In our house, we'll have the biggest library, filled with all of our favorite books. Everything will be right.

She sighed, so wistful that it physically hurt. She closed her eyes tight and-even though she knew it was terribly childish-wished for her future to come true.

And with the hope that it would, she closed her eyes and slept somewhat peacefully.