It's eight o' clock in the morning and her room is dark. She likes it that way; I guess it keeps her from feeling too badly about her own semi-gothic and thoroughly questioned identity. For as long as I can remember, she's had the blinds closed and the curtains drawn.

Long, rust-colored strands of hair cloak her thin neck and pronounced collarbone, left naked against the superficial, foul-smelling air that permeates her hotel room. It's a fake red, probably created to simply humor those who tell her she's too "dark." In the summertime she hates it because it sticks to the beads of sweat on the back of her neck, but I've never seen her pull it up. She's come to use it as a sort of safeguard, cloaking her face when the world starts to cave in around her.

She's alone in the dark, in the silence, in her underwear as she pads back and forth with no special purpose or thought in mind. Faintly, her mind grasps the realization that she's going to have to start the day but she idly decides that she's not ready yet. Instead, she continues to pace around her room like a sedated animal in a wire cage. She thinks about why she feels so numb.

Lita. She hates that fucking name. It seems like the day she became it was the day it became her. It's been a long time since anyone on the outside has thought about her as more than just a name. Sure, she has her family and her friends, and she has me and Jeff, but like the saying goes, the grass is always greener. We always want what we can't have, and she wants to be able to meet someone without the burden of pretenses.

The clock reads 8:03 and her lip twitches slightly in distaste. Already running late. But then, when was the last day that she hadn't been running late for something? She's late for bed almost every night. Living this life demands a tight schedule, where one minute off will throw you from your copasetic mood entirely. It's tough, but we chose it.

Sometimes we regret the choices we make.

The fluorescent light of a pocket-sized bathroom flickers for a second as she flips the switch. Climbing up onto the counter with her feet in a sink dotted with water droplets, she stares at the close proximity of her face in the mirror. She hates the way she looks. She's hideous. She remembers how we dated once, and how we broke up, and how she convinced herself it was because of her appearance. That was a depressing time for her.

Batting an eyelash, she reaches down into her travel bag and pulls out a small make-up kit. She lines her dead gaze in black, matching what she already knows is her color scheme for the day. It's her color scheme every day. When she's finished, she places the kit aside and lays her head on top of her knees, staring sideways at her reflection. She hates how she looks so sad.

Sliding down from the bathroom sink, she wanders into the main room of her temporary dwelling and kneels catlike beside her suitcase. She hates how she can feel the coiling of her muscles with the movement. She hates her muscles. She wishes she were thin and bony, petite and girlish. She feels like a softball player. Like a wrestler. Like a boy.

She slips a black tank top over her head and pulls her hair back out around her shoulders. It's going to be another hot day, so she slips an elastic band around her wrist behind a worn out watch. She knows she won't use it, but it's become somewhat of a comforting talisman to her.

Her black denim is dirty, fading, and worn three times in a row without a washing. There's a moment of hesitance before she reaches for the carefully folded pants and slips them up over her hips once again. Reaching into the left pocket, she pulls out a dirty silver cross and fastens it around her neck. She fingers it lightly, looking down at it and remembering the day she found it in the street. It was the same day she found out her father had been killed in a car accident. She's always thought of it as a sign, and believes that God left it there for her. She wants to show it to Him when she meets Him, she wants to show that she still has it and tell Him that He is the only being that ever loved and watched after her.

In her right pocket, she fingers a lock of thin black hair bound tightly with a tired blue ribbon. She remembers how one night in our childhood, we each cut a piece from our heads and traded. The moment was sealed with a promise of eternal friendship. She wonders if I still have hers.

Re-entering the bathroom, she takes a final look at the tousle of matted red hair about her shoulders before running a brush through to smooth it out. Frowning, she notices that the shine is gone and wonders if she should have showered. After another moment of self-examination, she decides that she doesn't care enough anymore, and she's late besides. Maybe she'll just cut it off completely to avoid this conflict later on.

The bathroom light is turned off and she's shrouded in stubborn darkness yet again. Early morning light tries desperately to penetrate her protective force field, but like trying to tap into her mind it's impossible. The heavy drapes let no light in. The personification of this amuses her jaded disposition, realizing it's just like her to close everything off.

She's terrified of people, not to put too fine of a point on it. You'll never find love if you can't love yourself, she remembers me saying to her on the day I left her. It was a long time ago but she plays it back in her head as though it were just an hour before. Since then I haven't seen her with another guy, and sometimes I feel guilty for doing that to her. For being the reason she lies to avoid getting close to people. But she had always been so strong; I never thought that I would have been able to break her.

She sighs, hating that she continues to dwell on this despite the years of opportunity she's had to get over it. She hates her heart, and she hates me even though she's learned to hide it. She hates me because I'm oblivious; because I have yet to realize that after all this time, I am still the only person she continues to think about. I'm a constant in her fragile psyche and I don't know it and so she hates me.

The clock reads 8:14 and she's now 14 minutes late. With her prolonged lolly-gagging and the constant of morning traffic, she'll be 45 minutes late. She wonders momentarily if anybody cares. She then concludes that she doesn't care whether or not anybody cares. She pauses, and wonders if I would care.

The thought lingers and roams; she wonders if I still worry about her. She wonders if I still think of her when I see something random on the street, if sometimes I still wish we were sleeping side by side in bed at night, if I still wonder whether or not she would like the movie she was renting tonight. She thinks about all this and feels like crying. She thinks about feeling like crying, and she does cry.

Maybe just one for the road.

She sits on the floor and pulls her bag to her side. Rummaging in an inner pocket, her long fingers emerge brandishing a small razor blade. She looks at it, hardly visible in the dim light, and then slowly pulls off the thin cardboard guard. It's a painful process because it's so familiar; she promised herself that she would try to stop, but sometimes it's all that she needs. It's a sick fixation, so much so that now it's the only thing that can ever make everything stop feeling so bad.

Pulling up a pant leg to her mid-thigh, she stares at the disfiguring scars that line her shins and calf muscles. If only anyone knew that they were there.

And so she cuts. Up and down, slow at first to watch the blood seep, and then angrily until her entire leg and the carpet below is stained with an ominous shade of red. She stares hard, drained of emotion, and starts to feel the sting of what she's been doing for the past several seconds. It's ugly, she thinks to herself, just like the rest of her. The inside is just as ugly as the outside. She hates it.

I'm right, she decides. No one could ever love a person with so much self-loathing. She could never love herself - a person so lacking passion and drive - and so no one could ever learn to love her. She cries again, knowing that once she had me but made me hate her so much that I had to leave. It was her fault; everything is her fault. She misses me; she misses the days when I used to make her feel beautiful. I was the only one who ever could.

She stares at her arms, with skin so flawless and clean. Perfect creamy color, a fleshy underside, light hairs and minimal freckles … delicate wrists. She stares at the blue veins in her underarm and then at the blade in her open palm. It can't really be that easy, can it? It's no lie that she's given up, but to end it completely has never been a consideration until this moment. It doesn't seem so bad.

The blade grazes as she takes a testing swipe. It's light and makes chills run up her spine. There's a shot of adrenaline that she hasn't felt in years. It's excitement, it's feeling like a dare devil. It's having control over the most oppressive aspect of life - whether you live or die. She smiles the tiniest of smiles.

It doesn't have to be this way, she thinks. She doesn't have to hate herself so much, she doesn't have to wish she were someone else every single day. She doesn't have to be bothered with how people react to her, she doesn't have to care about the people that only want to know her because she's Lita. She doesn't have to be sad about the fact that no one knows her and no one wants to. She doesn't have to be sad about me, the only boy she ever loved turning his back on her right when she needed him the most.

Me, the boy who decided he loved the business more than her. Who couldn't deal with how all of the sudden she was sad every day, hating herself every day, not feeling good enough every day. Who decided she was holding him back and told her that he couldn't be her leg to stand on anymore, that she had to learn to face her fears and accept who she was. She didn't HAVE to be sad about me anymore.

Me, who is on my way to her room as she's slitting her wrists with the greatest of ease. Me, who only wants to tell her that my greatest mistake was abandoning her.

She hates that I'm the very last thought to ever grace her mind.



"She Talks to Angels" by the Black Crowes
she never mentions the word addiction
in certain company
yes, she'll tell you she's an orphan
after you meet her family

she paints her eyes as black as night now
she pulls those shades down tight
she gives a smile when the pain comes
the pain's gonna make everything alright

she says she talks to angels
they call her out by her name
oh yeah, she talks to angels
says they call her out by her name

she keeps a lock of hair in her pocket
and a cross around her neck
the hair is from a little boy
and the cross is all she has not met, not yet

she don't know no lovers
none that I ever seen
and to her that means nothing
but to me, it means everything