I hear her. She’s calling my name.

“Kalani.”

Her voice…it’s soft, just like I remember.

“Kalani.”

Only she sounds clearer now, not muffled by bad reception.

It’s nice.

“Kalani!”

Why is she shouting?

Slowly, I open my eyes to see the fuzzy image of my mother kneeling in front of me.

With a shaky hand, I reach out and touch her cheek. “Mom?” I whisper.

“Oh, honey...” she breathes, her voice breaking.

Her face is still blurry, but I can make out her slim figure.

Her hair, long and dark, lays straight against her shoulders. Squinting, I see a flash of crystal blue eyes before losing focus again.

Shaking my head, I blink rapidly.

When she’s still there, still kneeling in front of me, panic takes over and I fly to my feet, frantically looking around.

Burgundy walls. Not white.

The moment my eyes land on her, they harden.

“Kalani...” Her head tilts as she puts her hands out in front of her, slowly moving to stand. “Honey, I-”

“Stop talking!” I shout, my palms flying to my temple, eyes closed tight. Taking a calming breath, I drop my hands, straighten my spine, and lock eyes with her. “How did you get in here?” I snarl.

If Mia-

“I knocked,” she rushes out nervously. “When you didn’t answer, I got worried and tried the knob.” She looks down at the tile. “It was unlocked.”

There’s a desperate look in her eyes.

“I know I shouldn’t have just walked in, and I was going to turn around and leave, but the light was on.” She looks at the ceiling. “Then I saw you lying there...” She motions with shaky hands to the spot on the floor.

When I give a sharp nod, she smiles weakly, and I have to look away.

“Kalani, talk to me,” she whispers and I want to scream. “Please.”

“I can’t,” I murmur to the ground. “I can’t talk to you. I can’t even look at you. I’m sorry, but all you are is a constant reminder.”

“But-”

“I can’t!” I shout. “Please, just... go.” Desperate for something to hold onto, I turn and grab ahold of the countertop, squeezing until my knuckles turn white.

I don’t let go until I hear the front door close.

Run. I need to run.

I rush to the door, but stop short. “Shit.” I don’t have time before I have to meet Jarrod.

Music is my only option.

I storm into my room, blast Linkin Park’s “Numb” as loud as my speakers will let me and get ready for my ‘date’ with Jarrod.

As I enter the bathroom, I flinch at my own reflection.

Long dark hair.

Bright blue eyes.

I look just like her.

“Ugh!” I grunt out. This is so stupid. This is why I didn’t want to come here. I don’t need this shit.

I was fine.

I’ve been fine.

I am fine.

Plugging in my curling iron, I let it heat, while I start on my makeup.

In the beginning, when everything went to shit, everyone thought I’d be depressed, suicidal.

I let out a humorless laugh.

When that didn’t happen, they thought I was hiding behind my pain. Living in denial. They thought I’d come unhinged at any moment. That my emotions would eventually win out and destroy me.

They were wrong.

So wrong.

What the counselors and psychologists and psychiatrists failed to realize is my emotions could never pull me under.

It’s simply not possible.

My emotions could never take over, never swallow me whole.

No.

What they failed to realize is you can’t be depressed or suicidal or in pain, and you sure a shit can’t break, if your emotions themselves are... lifeless.

Empty.

Sure, I laugh and smile and enjoy myself. And yes, I’m fully capable of getting excited, or becoming aroused. But I don’t feel it. Not on the inside anyway. Not where it counts.

I don’t get sensations deep within myself that cause distress or discomfort, or anything else for that matter.

Common conceptions don’t apply to me; they don’t affect me.

I don’t get jealous. I don’t feel humiliation or compassion or love. Hell, I don’t even feel alive most of the time. It’s all skin deep. Fun and free-spirited. It is what it is and nothing more. And I love it. It’s perfect.

A beautiful simplicity of nothingness.

The ultimate escape.