Chapter One, Part One: Unlovable
Sophia Crawford

When I was in fourth grade, my English teacher asked our class what they thought love felt like to them. It seemed like a simple question at the time.

Some of their answers were pretty silly when I think back on them, like Samantha who said that love felt like getting licked in the face by a puppy and Al who said that love felt like getting kissed on the cheek by Grandma.

But there was a specific answer that really got to me mainly because I didn’t have that kind of love, and to this day I don’t think I would ever have that love, either. Daniel Oakley answered that love felt like mom’s warm hugs.

The answer got to me because I didn’t have a mom who pulled me into a warm hug whenever I was sad, like Daniel said. When I cried, she told me to suck it up. She didn’t hug me. She didn’t comfort me. She didn’t show me any affection, or even love. I never felt her love, and it felt like her love was supposed to be the most important, seeing that she’s my mother and all.

Therefore I thought I was incapable of feeling love, until I met him.

Daniel Oakley.

I know it’s a different kind of love, but it’s the only love I have ever and truly known. It was a love very different from getting licked in the face by a puppy or getting a cheek-kiss by Grandma, but it’s a love I will never forget.

Daniel showed me what love felt like and if I could hold onto that feeling forever, I would, but I lost him in a terrible car accident and the love I tried to hold onto slipped right through my fingertips. I lost the only person who has ever showed me how love truly felt like and now I don’t think I can ever feel something like that ever again, especially since I was the one who caused his death, because who wants to love a person who killed someone?

My mother, who never loved me before, wanted a reason to throw me out of the house and when she found out that I killed Daniel in that accident, she did, she threw me out. She sent me, along with a few bags of my belongings, straight to my grandmother’s house. I don’t think she has ever thought about me since, and to be honest, I don’t really even care.

I never knew what it felt like to be loved by her, so it wasn’t a big loss. I can’t say that it didn’t bother me, though, because it did. It’s not very pleasant to know that the person who birthed you doesn’t love you at all.

All my life I thought that the problem was me, until I realised I wasn’t.

She was.

My mother.

She was the problem.

My mother wanted every single thing to be completely perfect and nothing should’ve been out of place. “Nothing less of perfect.” She’d say. And when she realised that I didn’t want to wear my hair perfectly like she did, or go shopping with her when I could have spent the day outside, she ruled me out to be imperfect—something she didn’t want her only daughter to be.

And ever since then, I wasn’t her favourite person in the world, and she made sure I knew that every time. She started to exclude me. She started to ignore me. She didn’t talk to me a lot anymore. She drowned me out. And when she saw the opportunity to get rid of me, she didn’t hesitate at all.

But I was happy to be out of that toxic household, away from my mother.

Hell, I didn’t live in a fancy house with a big yard and a pool, but I was at least loved here in my grandmother’s house, and that is all I ever asked for.

To be loved.

My grandmother’s house was quite small, but it was very homey.

The guestroom I was currently using as my own bedroom was small and only contained a two-tier wooden desk with loose change and nail polish bottles lying on top of it, a single bed with purple bedding, a dresser with paint that started to fade out which contained my clothes, a few posters of bands and actors I managed to stick to the wall to make it look more like my old room, a dim desk lamp and an old, worn out beige rug on the floor.

There were days, many days, actually, when I would lay on that old beige rug, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the neighbour’s dog barking outside, if not music, and my grandmother would be downstairs, baking whatever she was in the mood to bake that day—small cupcakes with vanilla icing, chocolate chip muffins, thin cookies or even three-tiered cakes with fruity or creamy fillings inside them.

The aromas of the things she was baking downstairs always made me want to leave my room to grab a bite, but then the thoughts of Daniel and the accident would make me lose my appetite completely. I don’t think I have finished a full plate of food since the accident, and that was more than five months ago.

I was lying on the beige rug now, staring up at the ceiling after being woken up by yet another nightmare a few minutes ago. Tiny beads of sweat were trickling down my forehead. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, seeing the sweat glistening against my skin when I pulled my hand away.

The nightmares were getting too much. And if it isn’t the nightmares waking me up, it’s the constant reminder of what I did keeping me up at nights, even when I was exhausted. I don’t think I had a decent full-night’s sleep in months, and if I did manage to fall asleep, I would jerk awake at the sounds of the accident and I wouldn’t dare to close my eyes again.

I am exhausted. I don’t eat a lot.

But I still can’t eat and I still can’t sleep.

I release a deep sigh and sit upright, crossing my legs over one another on the floor and sit with my back against the foot of the bed.

I rest my head on the bed and look at the ceiling.

I can’t believe it has been more than five months since I lost Daniel. It has been five months since I lost him in that accident. Five months and I still haven’t forgotten. How could I? I lost the love of my life on that night.

It was the best night of my entire life but it turned into my worst nightmare, all of that just because I looked away from the road to kiss him on the lips.

I could have prevented the accident from happening if I just focused on the road, but I was overwhelmed with absolute joy, I just wanted to kiss him.

It was a normal reaction after all, right? To kiss the love of your life after he proposed to you? But not when you were driving, Sophia. That was very stupid.

I close my eyes, feeling tears coating my eyes.

Flashing images of the accident cloud my mind and my ears start to ring almost immediately. I throw my palms over my ears, trying to focus on anything but the constant ringing in my ears and trying to suppress the images, but to no avail. The ringing was getting louder and louder, so I took my palms away from my ears and focused on the hum of the ceiling fan.

Some people would explain the sound of a car accident to sound like a bang, or even a very loud thud, but the sound of our accident was deafening.

It was almost like the calm before the storm.

It was silent at first, as if my entire life flashed right before my eyes, but then the sounds all came crashing down at once, and fast: the sickening sound of metal crashing against metal, and Daniel’s grunts when the car collided into ours, the windshield breaking into a million shards…It’s a sound I wish I could forget, but it’s impossible. It’s like a song that’s stuck in your mind on repeat and you can’t get it out, and it’s impossible for me to hear anything else but the sickening sound of metal against metal and Daniel’s grunts.

It’s impossible for me to forget the sounds, and simple things, like a car honking in the distance and rain pitter-pattering against a roof would remind me of the accident again. I think it would stick with me forever.

When the ringing and the images would get too much for me to handle, too unbearable, I start to chant three simple words inside my head, and as I chanted those words in my head, I tried to focus my breathing to become slow until I started to calm down: “in and out.” Just three simple words.

When I felt my heartbeat start to increase, at a rapid pace that is considered abnormal, I started to chant the three simple words in my mind: “In and out—” but I was cut off abruptly when my alarm clock decided to go off.

The sound pierced throughout my quiet room, completely startling me.

I get up from the floor with a groan, walk over to the alarm clock and smack my palm against the button to get it to shut up.

Once it was silent in my room again and I was once again alone with my thoughts, I sit down on my unmade bed and breathe in deeply and evenly.

There were only a few beats of complete silence when the house woke up.

And by house, I meant my grandmother.

She’s is in the kitchen now. I hear the clank of cutlery as she started breakfast. I then hear the crack of an egg into a frying pan, and a few minutes later, the spatula grinds against the pan to get the eggs to scramble. My grandmother then takes out cups from the cupboard because the kettle is already on the stove with the water on its way to start boiling soon.

That was the routine for the two months I have already spent here. I never saw her prepare any of the food or deserts she has made, but the walls of the house were so thin, you could hear anything if you focused hard enough.

I have spent most of my childhood here too, watching her bake and make breakfast so I didn’t need to see her in action to know what she has been making downstairs.

It didn’t take very long for the smell of scrambled eggs and fresh coffee to seep through my doorframe. My stomach immediately groans at the smell.

I was completely famished but it was also the nerves getting to me.

“Sophia!” My grandmother yells from downstairs. “I’m making breakfast. Jump in the shower and come downstairs to eat. You need to leave on a full stomach!”

Her yells were echoing throughout the entire house, I’m sure the neighbours heard her. I swear these walls were thinner than a piece of paper. When she yelled, it sounded like she was in the room next to mine and not downstairs.

“Sophia!”

I groan in response.

I stare up at the ceiling, focusing my eyes on the paint that started to chip at the edges of the walls and the cracks it made. It was in desperate need of another coat of fresh paint, and maybe a new colour scheme. Beige with my dark curtains didn’t go very well together, especially not when the paint was starting to fade out, giving the walls this ugly, yellowish-brown colour.

The room was still presentable and somewhat cosy if you looked past the dust settled across every surface and the cobwebs in the corners of the walls. And don’t mention the scary sounds the tree’s branches made—scraping and crashing against the walls outside whenever there was a strong breeze.

But I guess sleeping in a paint-chipped and dust coated room was better than sleeping in a house where your mother didn’t want you at all, so the chipped paint, cobwebs, the dust and the scary tree outside would just have to do, even though the smell of the dust became too much on some days.

It’s better than nothing. I think to myself.

My grandmother took me in when my own parents, my own flesh and blood, didn’t want me, so I should be grateful when she agreed to take me in when I arrived with nothing but a few bags of my belongings and the clothes on my back.

My grandmother had an instant family, and with an instant family came instant responsibility. She cooks for me, buys me the things that I need, and she enlisted me in school so that I could finish my last year of school—even though I was against the idea of starting a new school after the accident.

I asked her if she would consider letting me get home-schooled instead of going to a public school with everything that happened, but that request was denied even before the entire sentence left my mouth. She was not having it at all. She would rather let me try than to give up, and a part of me loved her for that. The other part, though, wanted to hide underneath a rock.

I am not ready to face new students, or even teachers. I am not ready to be seen, not so soon. It has been a few months, though, but it’s still too soon for me. I haven’t made peace with the fact that Daniel was gone and that he wasn’t coming back yet.

I don’t think I ever will, either.

I hear my grandmother’s footsteps ascending the wooden staircase. I quickly jump from my bed, throw my pillows to the floor and make my bed.

The door to my room opens and she smiles proudly at me when she poked her head through the opening between the doorframe and the door. “I thought you were still asleep. You didn’t answer when I called you—”

“—four times already.” I cut her off, swiping a hand across my tired face. “Everyone in the damn neighbourhood could hear you yelling my name, Grandma.” I immediately feel bad after the words left my mouth.

She retreats backward like I slapped her.

I release a defeated sigh, closing my eyes tightly before looking at her again. “I’m so sorry, Grandma.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming along. “I just… I didn’t sleep well. And the nerves… I’m sorry…”

It wasn’t her fault that my mother, my own flesh and blood, didn’t want me anymore, or that Daniel passed away. It was my fault, and taking my anger out on her was definitely uncalled for. She didn’t deserve it at all. She was just trying to be nice to me and I just had to mess that up by snapping at her.

She walks over to me, smiling. “It’s okay, sweetie.” She says, pinching my cheek between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s understandable. Starting a new school is never easy, but I can assure you that you will be fine.”

I pull her close and wrap my arms around her. “Thank you, Grandma.” I hug her tight, inhaling the sweet and comforting smell of her scent—fresh soap and lavender. It eased the nervousness about starting a new school just a little bit, but as soon as my thoughts drifted to the new kids and the stares I have to endure today, the nervousness swallowed me up from the inside.

My stomach churns just thinking about it.

It feels like I want to throw up all over the rug I spend most of my time on and I doubt that the old beige rug would be the same after that happens.

“Are you sure you’re okay though?” She asks when she pulls away from my embrace.

I nod. Slowly. Hesitantly. “I think I will be fine. I’ll be just fine, like you said.” I smile at her. “I just feel a little sick thinking about all the stares and gossip I have to endure.” I feel another wave of nausea washing over me.

The nausea settled in the pit of my stomach and it won’t be long before I release all the contents, if there was any, onto the rug. If it wasn’t for the fact that I haven’t exactly eaten properly in months, I would have already vomited, but my stomach was practically empty. There was nothing to discard.

“You’ll be fine.” She says, reassuring me for the second time. “Get ready.” She turns on her heels and walks toward the open door, but she pauses in the doorway and turns to look at me over her shoulder. “Don’t forget about that support group I signed you up for. Maybe it will help you, Sophia.”

I nod at her even though I will not set my feet anywhere near that support group. I have my own support, myself and my grandmother. I don’t need to talk about my problems and bleed my heart out to complete strangers.

My grandmother nods, her shiny grey hair falling to her face before she tucks it behind her ear again.

She smiles at me and clicks the door shut behind her when she left.

I walk toward the mirror I had set up in the corner of my room, beside my desk, and stare at my reflection. The girl on the other end is definitely not the same girl of a few months ago staring back at me.

I changed a lot in five months.

No, I changed a lot after the accident.

My hair is dry and almost every strand has split ends. My lips are cracked and they were in desperate need of lip gloss. My skin is completely pale. I have no colour in my cheeks, and I only have myself to blame for that. I was in the house the entire time, reading books and staring out of my window instead of lying in the sun and going out. I was also lying on the old rug listening to the playlist Daniel made for me before he passed away.