Because who the hell do I have to cry for, myself? In pity over a situation I created?

Maybe I’m the one who is pathetic.

And damaged.

And so so screwed.

My door stayed locked all night and day the remainder of the weekend. I played music at deafening volumes that did horrible things for my massive hangover, and if Monti tried to knock, I didn’t hear it. If the doorbell rang, oh fucking well.

But it’s Monday now, so I have to smile and move along like all is well in this fucked-up world of spoiled rich kids and the shit we deal with behind closed doors.

Speaking of closed doors, I open mine to find Monti sitting outside of it.

She jolts, jumping to her feet, looking as if she hasn’t slept since I left her in the hall.

Her cheek is stained a light red in color and a twinge of guilt pokes at me, but I push it away.

It does no good to feel bad for the things we do, that’s just our own conscious trying to justify our actions, but it’s an action that came from us. I did something, so that means, at that time, in that moment, I meant it. To take it back now is to try and save myself from the shame or whatever you want to call it that comes with facing it.

The reality of the situation is I slapped my sister because she cracked, showed her guilt, which forced me to face the facts I no longer seem to be able to fight off.

I’m angry with her.

Livid with her.

I might even hate her.

More pressure falls on my chest, and she senses it, offers a small smile and walks away, but not before pointing to the steaming latte left in the place she stood from.

I kick it over and get the hell out.

I wait until the bell rings to enter the school and avoid eye contact as much as possible throughout the day, but when lunch rolls around, I’m forced to call on my smile, at least for a few minutes until everyone settles into their own conversations and I’m able to pretend to be reading over my French paper on my phone.

That is until the space across from me is filled by a bleach blonde with dark chunks underneath that look like shit.

Her gaze is burning into my skin, so I snap mine up.

She glares, sipping on her smoothie like a prissy little bitch.

Of course, she waits until I look down to lean forward, bringing herself closer to me. With a quick glance down the table, she whispers, “We warned you they were psychotic. A waste of space that will never belong.”

“You’re just mad he stopped letting you suck his dick.”