“Yeah, right. You totally do it, like, every night.” Luke’s girlfriend, Violet, strolls out of the bedroom, fastening her red and black hair into a ponytail. “Don’t think I don’t see you.”

“You’re giving away all of my secrets.” I wink at her.

She rolls her eyes as she drops down on Luke’s lap, and his arms instantly wrap around her. “That’s totally not true. You have so many secrets that I’m sure none of us know.”

Not wanting to talk anymore about me and my secrets, I relax in the sofa and reach for the remote for the stereo to crank up some Smashing Pumpkins. Moments later, the two of them start making out. The music covers up their dirty talk and moaning, but when the room starts to feel stuffy, I grab my notebook and iPod from the coffee table and sneak outside to smoke and write.

Writing has become my voice. Having lost my own, I started jotting down my thoughts. It lets me get out what I need to say, even if it’s only to a piece of paper.

The outside air has a little nip to it. I zip up my jacket and settle down into my private spot in the apartment complex, a small area just out of the reach of the fading sunlight nestled between the bushes and below a row of windows. I get situated as I pop my earbuds in and turn on some Johnny Cash. Then I light up a cigarette, recline against the wall, and tip my head up to stare at the window above me, hoping to catch a glimpse of that girl who threw a flurry of torn papers down on my head. Papers that I now have in my dresser drawer, waiting to be taped together and read.

I hadn’t meant to take them, but then I picked one up and read what was on it—perfection doesn’t exist. I suddenly found myself gathering each one and reading a few of the more legible pieces:

But then there was my brother.

My brother, he was different.

He was the cloud that cast shadows

and darkness over our home.

Some say that late at night

he danced with the devil.

That under the stars and moon

he stripped himself bare

for the whole world to behold.

They said he was a rebel.

Trouble.

Broken.

He diluted our perfection.

I swear to God, it was as if the mysterious girl had been writing about me. Who the hell was she? And how could she write such relatable words?

I’d been more than curious to find out and somehow managed to run into her on the stairway. And, holy shit, did I run into her.

Emery is gorgeous, to say the least. Absolutely stunning to the point where my imagination instantly conjured up hot, sweaty sex scenes starring her and me. She was also really nervous about wanting the papers back. But before I could give them to her, she took off, probably because my silence freaked her out.

Now, three days later, I can’t get Emery out of my head. I’ve been stalking her. Not in a creeper sort of way or anything; I’ve just made an effort to study her from my porch when she sits on the grass and writes in a notebook.

She looks lost in her writing as she guides the pen across the paper, so into her thoughts. There was one day when a guy nearly ran over her while playing catch, and she didn’t so much as glance up, completely lost in whatever world she was creating on those pages.

I also discovered she likes to run. Every morning, if I time it right, I can see her taking off across the parking lot. Some days, she pauses near the carport for a few moments and just stares out in the distance, as if she’s drifted into a daydream. I wonder what she’s thinking about when she does it. Who she’s thinking of. Herself or another? Perhaps a boyfriend?

Okay, maybe I am just a bit creeper stalkerish.

After staring at her window for a while, I finally give up and press the pen to the paper as nicotine drenches my blood. Some days, I write about my double life. Some days, I write about my father. Today, I feel like writing about my past before I lost my voice.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like

to walk out of the shadows

and into the sunlight.

I’ve always been one of those people

the clouds hover over

and shower with storms.

It started when I was born.

My mother had no idea how to hold me.

Feed me.

Take care of me.

She tried,

but it was hard.

And so as soon as it began,

she quickly stopped.

My father wasn’t the same.

He didn’t even try.

He just looked at me with eyes that silently said:

Why even bother.

As soon as he met me,

he lifted his hand

and waved good-bye.

Just like that,

he was gone.

In the blink of an eye.

Not too long after that,

my mother decided that my father was right—

that it was easier to give up,

rather than to try.

So I entered the system

of abandoned children

that no one wanted.

The Land of Shadows was what I called it.

Always darkness.

We had only our inner light to survive—

There was never a hope in sight.

Almost a new bed every night.

Getting passed through homes went on for years.

And the older I got,

the more my inner light vanished.

Layer

by

layer

my life was peeled away.

Until my soul blackened completely.

But as most tragic stories go,

My soul burned brightly at first.

It burned more brightly than the sun.

I was sixteen at the time.

I had just been put into a new home.