Our So Called Lives
Amber’s P.O.V.
I lay on my on my bed, wondering what the fuck did I do wrong. For days I just sat here in this room staring at the walls or my tattoo that I got a few weeks ago on my wrist.
“Amber!” I heard my dad yell. Wow, for the first time they've managed to get my name right. It's a sign of the apocalypse. I groaned as I rolled off the mess that was my bed; I just haven't been able to care. Opening the door to my room, I made my way down stairs; along this journey, I found my parents as well as my aunt, Olivia, as well as my uncle, Dan. None of them looked pleased to see that I had graced them with my presence.
“What's going on?” I asked, eying my parents carefully. Something wasn't right about this family gathering and I was thinking of all the places I would rather be, like my room for example.
“Amber," my mother began shortly after I asked. "Your father and I have been talking, and after recent events we have decided that we no longer want you in our home."
"Don't think that this is going to be a vacation," my uncle glared at me and I felt small under his gaze. I've never seen so much disgust in one person and I was uneasy. "If you even think of pulling the same senseless shit at our house, there will be consequences; severe consequences."
They were all accusing me of the event that shook all of our lives, my life. On the fourteenth of June, my sister Anabelle and I had plans to go to my friend Blaise's house. Blaise was also Anabelle's boyfriend, I had the pleasure of introducing them. On our way to his house, some idiot ran a red light and drove right into us. I don't remember much from the crash, but I managed to walk away with some broken ribs and a lot of scratches.
My sister was sitting on the side of the car that caught the initial impact; she didn't make it. The doctor said that she died almost instantly. That day I had lost the most important person in my life, the only person who actually gave a damn about me.
About a month after her death, I got a tattoo on my wrist of her name, our year of birth, and the year of her death. The tattoo hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing compared to the pain of losing her.
My way of escaping was visiting her grave, often. I ditched school and climbed out of my bedroom window to leave the shit I had to deal with at home. My parents needed a vessel for their pain and I was the target. They constantly yelled at me and screamed that it was all my fault. I was to blame and that I should have been the one to die. It didn't stop there either, my favorite (major sarcasm here) person in the world began to give me shit at school. Bridgette felt the need to antagonize me everyday after the accident and I reacted in the way any normal person would:
I kicked her fucking ass.
Apparently it wasn't the greatest decision of my life, seeing that the school expelled me. I didn't care, she deserved everything that she got and she was lucky that I didn't do more than break her nose.
This explains why my parents are, in a sense, disowning me.
“You've got to be shitting me.” I mumbled, to myself. Everything was spiraling out of control and I had no say in any of it.
My aunt glared even harder at me, apparently she heard my displeasure, "Get your stuff packed together tonight. You're leaving with us tomorrow morning."
Great. Just fucking great. Goodbye hellhole I'm leaving you for the deeper part of hell.
