The Blame Game


I’m the most famous sixteen-year-old in the United States. Whoopie. To tell you the truth, I hate it. I hate being famous. It sucks. Especially because of the reason I’m famous. It’s not because of anything I did, but because of what I didn’t do. I’m stuck with everyone jeering at me, hating me. They think I’m this brutal, heartless person who doesn’t care about my family. I mean, that’s what it looks like. No one knows what actually happened, because no one ever takes the time to ask me what happened, they’re too busy despising me. It’s not like I want to relive it anyway. I have enough reminders of what happened.  
I’m awakened by the sound of birds outside my window. It’s the first pleasant wake-up I’ve had in a while. I’m still in the happy-sleepy stage of the morning, so I’m not thinking clearly. “You know,” I think, “today might actually be a good day.” I smile and sit up in bed stretching. That’s when I see the calendar on the wall, that’s when reality hits. I fall back into bed and pull my pillow over my face to muffle my pitiful groan. Why why why? A tear trickles down my cheek as my moan turns into a sob. I roll onto my side as I curl into a ball and cry. I knew this day was coming but I wasn’t ready. It was still too soon. There was still so much pain. I always felt like he would run into the room and call my name. He would give me a big hug and he would tell me it was okay because he was back now, it was all a mistake and he was never actually gone. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. No matter how much I wished, hoped, or dreamed, he was gone and he wasn’t ever coming back, ever. 

 The second time I wake up it’s because of Mrs. Keely entering the room.

 “Good morning Patrica,” she says brightly opening the curtains and windows. 

“Trish,” I correct her for the millionth time. 

“Oh yes, my bad.” she continues to bustle around the room, picking up clothes and books from the floor. I watch her silently.

“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” she says, “You better hurry up and get ready. You have a big day today.” She leaves the door open when she leaves. 

“Yeah right,” I mutter as I slip out of bed and close the door. There’s no way I’m leaving the house today, I think, as I go around the room closing the windows and undoing everything Mrs. Keely just did. I’m gonna stay in bed all day and avoid the angry mobs. I pull the covers over my head and cry again if only I hadn’t been so oblivious. If it wasn’t for that stupid Jack Marvin, Peter would still be alive and we’d at home with Mom and Dad celebrating his thirteenth birthday. No, it’s my fault. Not Jack’s. Not Peter's. It's not Mom or Dad's fault either. It's mine. It’s always my fault.

Hope you like it!
-Daughter

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