girl on the inside.

I was always a "normal girl." I was in the "popular group" in my school, and at six-eigth grade, I thought that my friends were perfect, I was perfect, and unlike my "besties" or "bffs" applying way too much strawberry tinted lipgloss in the bathroom, I would probably think that you were perfect too.

This was quite the facade I was portraying at school, with my perfect hair, outgoing personality, and pearly whites to match. Noone knew the real me: the girl that would pace around the kitchen island as her parents fought. The girl that heard her father scream to her mother that she would dissapear one day and noone would find her. The girl that secretly thought in the shower one morning: I have to kill myself or runaway. I can't live like this.

I remember the flashing lights in the driveway even though it was daytime. I remember looking at my mom sitting in front of me, the way my mind went blank, and my hand fought the handle, opening the car door so I could run through my front door. I remember my grandmother there, worried, maybe screaming no to me, but apparently I didn't listen, because I clearly remember running past the police, almost making it up the stairs, but a blonde policewoman held me back.

My family and I were staying at her friends, and I remember my mother and I frantically calling my fathers cellphone, trying to get him to pick up. We didn't know yet what we would find out later, that my father had been murdered, shot in the morning, and they didn't know who did it. That is were my life started to crumble, fall apart at the seams. It was in that moment, I would lose myself, crawling into a black hole, that I have yet to truely find my way out of.


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