I woke up screaming again. But this time, the dream was different. It wasn’t Cynthia who was broken on the ground. It was my mom. And I was the one behind the wheel.

Lunch. I was unsuccesfully trying to drown out the images in my mind as Paige babbled on. Suddenly she caught my attention, “So you have nightmares.”
My throat tightened, my muscles constricted, “So?” I asked harshly.
“So,” she said, “It’s interesting.”
I stared at her silently. “Yes,” she repeated, her voice cutting, “Interesting.And you scream.And you listen to music nonstop, just so you can empty your brain and walk around like some kind of clam that’s been sucked out and left behind it’s shell, empty and pearless.And you don’t want to be happy. And you can’t stand to hear the words ‘death’ or ‘dead’ or ‘Cynthia’ and you even occasionally react to ‘drunk.’ You don’t like color.You don’t do homework, you don’t listen in class, and you’re failing almost all of you’re classes. Interesting.”
She took a deep breath as I sat there, stunned.