Hold Me Tight

|ONE|

Chapter One: Miserable
-wretchedly unhappy or uncomfortable-

They say home is where the heart is, so I guess I have no home. I wouldn't even call the place I live in a home, even if my happiest moments happened in it, which none did. This house is nothing but a shit hole, filled with shitty people and bad memories.

My "home" is a two bedroom house that's slowly falling apart. The walls are covered with strips of cheap duct tape which serve as a poor attempt to cover the numerous holes that line the walls. Cold wind still manages to slip through and chill me down to my core. The yard has nothing but balding yellow patches of grass filled to the brim with old cigarettes and beer cans. The windows are covered in thick layers of dirt smothering my view on the outside world. The ceiling isn't much better it's slanting inward awaiting for the right moment to collapse.

Some days I stare at it and wish for it to fall; praying extra hard for it to kill me on impact and end my miserable life.

Some days like now.

I remain still on my bed, clenching and un-clenching my fists. I can hear Caren's shrill laughter coming from the other room. Her drunken companion blasting music from the loud speakers in the living room. "Get the fuck in your room!" Caren's words spoken to me hours ago are on repeat in my head.

I keep my gaze on the nasty ceiling positioned above me. The white paint chipping and turning a pale yellow. Water dripping onto my nightstand next to me.

I wanted so bad to scream at Caren demanding that she shut the fuck up and leave me alone, but I couldn't. Without wanting to my head gave a stiff nod and seconds later I found myself in my room; the lock on my door giving a silent click.

I was locked in that I was sure of. My window long ago bolted shut and the lock on the inside of my room smashed. The only way out was unlocking the door from the outside using keys that are in Caren's stupid hands.

My eyes trace the slope of the ceiling, starting high and dipping low to the spot right above my head.

Fall.

Please,

But it doesn't and I let out a pained sigh; my plead gone to waste. I sit up and then I do nothing. Everything just sort of stops and I forget what I wanted to do when I lifted myself up. Fall damn it. My gaze lands onto the tip of my journal hidden underneath a pile of dirty clothes bought on sale. I suddenly know what to do. I climb off the bed and reach for it obtaining a blue pen from the ground. I sit in a criss-cross-applesauce position and softly open up my journal.

Blue words cover the pages found inside. Big words, sad words, happy words, scribbled words, neatly written words, words, words, words, and more words. They fill up the pages, small definitions written below them. I read them, soaking in their meanings. Every single word represents strong feelings which have consumed me in the past. I run my hand over the most repeated word: nothing.

I want to laugh at it. I want to deny it's stupid definition, but I know why it's scribbled onto the white pages again and again. I'm slowly becoming numb. Caren's laugh breaks through my thoughts accompanied with a loud thump and the shut of a door. I try my best to ignore the grotesque moans enveloping the house.

I find an open spot and I quickly scribble out a new word, my blue pen running out of ink half way through the spelling. I curse angrily tossing it into the trash. My nightstand has a small puddle of water on the top and I search the cupboard located below it for another writing utensil only to find a broken, orange crayon. Tired I shrug and finish the word and write the definition out. Then I stare at my handiwork and a small emotionless chuckle leaves my mouth.

Yep miserable is the right word.

I fall back onto the carpet floor and continue to stare at the ceiling. Nothing leaving my mouth, but the soft whisper of prayer to the ceiling God's, asking them to just let mine fall.

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