One

Photographs are plastered all around my room. My parents playing soccer with me in the backyard, my sister teaching me to jump rope, Coco the dog running across the street, my mother sewing a beautiful scarf, my father attempting to fix a leaky sink on his own…

Twenty-four photographs are neatly tacked to the walls. Twelve photographs are set in rows across my desk.

Photographs. They’re all I have, and they’re all I will ever have.

I gingerly pick up a family photo of the four of us at the beach. My parents are smiling, eyes shining, and my sister is bouncing up and down, waiting for the photo to be taken so she can run back into the water. I stand in between my mother and my father, grinning excitedly.

The picture frame slips out of my hands and smashes to the hard wooden floor. My hands begin to shake involuntarily, frozen in the air, and before I know it, tears are stinging my eyes, threatening to fall.

“They’re dead,” I whisper softly to myself. “I killed them.” The broken glass at my feet blurs into nothingness as my tears drop. My hands cover my face, as if hiding the shame. “Lucy Morrigan...Liam Morrigan...Olivia Morrigan…C-Coco...Morrigan…” I bite my lip, a lump forming in my throat. “Rest in peace.” I dissolve into sobs.

--

“Once upon a time, my family was whole,” I mutter softly. I sit in the darkness of my living room, the lamps off, the curtains shut. “No. Once upon a time, my heart was whole.”

I stare down at my pale, bony fingers. I haven’t eaten in awhile. “Once upon a time, my heart was whole. Then a meteor came and crushed it to pieces.”

I look up at the flat-screen TV in front of me. My reflection stares back, revealing the bags under my eyes, my greasy, tangled hair, and pallid expression.

Well, it’s okay. I’m not planning on leaving this house anytime soon.

“Once upon a time…” I look left at the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “...I felt happy.” A shiver goes down my spine despite the humidity engulfing the room and the sweat on my palms. “Once upon a time, I felt happy. Then I was given a gift.” I don’t like this story. “I was given a gift, but I don’t know who gave it to me. And I hate my gift.” My fists clench. Am I angry? I don’t know.

“I hate my gift, because…” My eyes close. “...it is a meteor.”

--

“Wash your hands.” Advice from my parents - every single day. Every single hour, really. “Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

I took that advice. I would go into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and run water across my hands. Although to be honest, I didn’t like soap, and I didn’t use soap.

I don’t know if soap would’ve made a difference, though.

“Once upon a time, I forgot to wash my hands.” I pause, staring up at the ceiling. This bed is uncomfortable. “I forgot to wash my hands, and…” My eyes close. “...I forgot to stop the meteor.”

--

How many days have gone by, I wonder?

How many days have I neglected to eat?

I thought I might be hungry by now, but the emptiness of my heart distracts from the emptiness of my stomach.

“Once...upon a time…” Stories. Too many stories. “I had a family.” I absentmindedly look around the room. The shattered glass of the picture frame remains on the ground. “Then I did not.

“Once upon a time, I had a family. Then I did not. And why is that? Because sometimes, a gift is a curse. Because...sometimes…” The tears are coming back. “...you kill them.”

--

My hunger is showing itself. I have been unintentionally fasting for two days. How long can one go without eating?

I go into the kitchen, only to realize it is too dark to find food. The light blinds me temporarily.

Isn’t it strange, how one can be blinded by the thing that allows them to see?

Isn’t it strange, how one can be cursed by a gift?

I open the refrigerator. There is expired dairy products, some limp vegetables, and an apple. Just one apple.

Apples are only purchased in bulk. What happened to the rest of them? Were they eaten?

Did this one apple kill the other apples?

I take the apple, run it under tap water, and take a bite. I have killed the apple.

The apple is sour.

I take a second bite, but the taste does not improve. I toss the apple in the trash and return to my room.

I sit on the edge of my bed.

The apple is dead. Should I be dead?

--

I slip on my sneakers and tie my dirty hair into a ponytail. It is the middle of July and everything is humid. I open the door and step outside. The sun glares at me, and I squint at the street in front of me.

The neighborhood seems deserted. Well, it is noon on a Wednesday. They must be at work and school.

I should be in school. But I’m not, because kids can take leave for funerals and grieving.

There is no one to hold a funeral for my family. At the very least, I can’t exactly go out on my own to purchase five graves.

I step out and sit on the last of four steps leading down from my house. The sunlight makes me sleepy. I lay on my side and my eyes close.

--

It is nighttime. The humidity has, unthinkably, increased. I don’t bother to sit up and instead flip onto my back.

The sky is filled with clouds. I can’t tell if they’re storm clouds or not, but they block out the stars.

The moon shows through a gap in the darkness, weakly shining at me. It’s like a beacon of hope.

Or maybe it’s just the moon.

I stand up and go back inside.

--

I feel like I should go back to school. There’s a small problem, though.

I killed my family. How will I avoid killing my classmates?

“Wash your hands.”

It’s good advice, but hard to follow. Hard to remember. The moment I forget again, the meteor will return and smash through my barely-mended heart.

I don’t want that.

--

Am I alive? Probably.

Hunger gnaws at me everyday, reminding me of my physical limits. I can’t afford to go shopping, seeing as I’m only 14 years old and I can barely swipe a credit card. Even when I choose to eat, there’s no food.

Maybe I should be killed, like I killed my family. I would certainly deserve it.

It’s too bad I can’t use my gift on myself. I suppose that’s why it’s a curse, though - I can kill, and I can regret, but I can’t end it.

--

Tomorrow, I will return to school. Tomorrow is a Friday, so if I don’t like it, I won’t have to suffer more than one day at a time.

Tomorrow, I will wake up at 6:30 AM. I will take my first shower in 5 days, get properly dressed, and catch the bus. And I’ll interact with people.

I don’t want to, but I have to.

--

“Once upon a time…” I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “...I was beautiful. Once upon a time, people said I was beautiful.” I begin to comb my hair. “Then a meteor came and broke my heart, and I forgot that beauty existed.”

I run a hand through my voluminous, glossy brown hair. “Because humans can reflect back and change their minds, I was reminded of beauty.” I apply a generous amount of toothpaste to my toothbrush and work it in my mouth. “And…”

I spit and cup water into my mouth to rinse. “And I tried to become beautiful again.” I glance at my reflection once more. The bags under my eyes are as pronounced as ever, as are my bloodshot eyes and deadened expression. “But along with my heart, my appearance was destroyed.”

I stare at the clothes that wrap around my body. I wear a simple black t-shirt with a red flannel, comfortable jeans, and sneakers. A floral headband encompasses my forehead, complementing my hair.

“While accessories and makeup may create a false sense of beauty…” I close my eyes and open them again. “False beauty is nothing more than false.”

--

It is 6:55. The bus will arrive at 7:00 and first period starts at 7:30. I sit on the last of four steps leading down from my house and look up. The silhouette of the moon glimmers faintly, although the stars are nowhere to be seen.

“Dark or light, day or night, the moon does not fail to show. But in such circumstances, the stars are gambling with the clouds to be noticed.”

My backpack, empty of all but a notebook and a pencil, sits beside me. The rest of my things are in my school locker.

I wonder how much I’ve missed at school. I wonder how much I’ve been missed at school. Did my teachers notice? Did my friends notice?

Did I wash my hands?

I bolt upright and crash back through the house into the bathroom. The sink turns on, and I frantically scrub my hands. Sometimes I wonder if I simply soaked them in water for hours, would my curse go away forever?

Probably not.

Today I use a dime-sized squirt of soap. Maybe it will help. Maybe it will not. I do it anyway.

I make my way back outside slowly, wondering what time it is. The only clocks are in my room and the living room, and I will not pass through either of those rooms.

I step outside to find the bus waiting for me. The bus driver, an overweight, Mexican woman, does not seem impatient. She has noticed my backpack, which I left outside.

I pick it up and step onto the bus. She gives me a halfhearted smile that I ignore as I make my way to the back of the bus. We move on to the next stop. No one speaks to me.

Author's Note

What do you think about the metaphors? Especially the meteors - can you understand it without too much difficulty? And how should I organize the story? Putting each scene into chapters seems too short.