Chapter 1: 2. Michael Joshua Carter

I hate looking in the mirror. There are a lot of things I hate, but looking at myself in the mirror tops the list because everytime I look I see my mom.I look so much like her it gets on my nerves. It's like my reflection is mocking me telling me that one day im gonna end up just like her. A divorcee , a bad mother, an addict. I've studied articles about addictions and as far as I've understood they are passed down. They usually run in the families. I've never known much about my mom's parents, my grand parents. The only thing I knew, they were from Nashville. I had zero people to talk to about it and I didn't want it to be a telephone conversation with aunt rose. Now that she'll be here I might just ask her about my grandparents and the gazillion things I wanna know abt. Growing up I've never thought about all the people I'm related to. I never really wanted to know my dad as well. Now when I look back I don't know how I was as a kid, how did I feel , what questions I had , I don't remember any of it. I don't recall a single moment my mom and dad were together, happily. They divorced when I was 8 years old but even before that the only memories I have were my parents yelling at each other. And after they got divorced mom and I travelled a lot changing a lot of schools in the process before we finally came back to New York when I turned 12. So I've been attending the same god forsaken private school that's apparently only for the elite of New York . I guess there a lot of elite people in New York because the school is jam packed. We don't have any uniforms and that's a pain in the ass because that means you have to choose your outfits every. Single. Day. Nightmare right? Okay I'm gonna put it forward and be done with it. I suck at studies. I almost failed in math the past couple of years. The subjects I'm okay in is art and french and that's because Isabel is french. My only female friend for all intents and purposes Isabel Grace Portland is half french and half American. Her mom Juliette Monet is french and she's Beautiful. Like drop dead gorgeous and Isabel definitely inherited her good looks. I like to call her belly. Everyone calls her belly even when she doesn't like being called belly. Come-on who likes to be called belly!? Anyway belly's been topping our class since forever and since she spends most of her time in the library even in the PE period faking an illness, that's not news. I don't particularly remember the moment we became friends but belly is the best friend one can ask for. She helps me study ,she lends me her shoulder to lean on when I'm going through a rough time which is always and her mom makes the best sandwiches. I wish I can say the same for myself. I wish. But no, I'm the complete opposite of belly. I'm moody, I constantly live in my head, I don't talk , I don't express my feelings or thoughts and I'm currently failing againn in school. Belly is the only person in school who knows a little about me. About mom , dad etc. When I say a little, I mean little. The only thing she knows is that my parents are divorced and my mom is pretty much non existent in my life. That actually sums up everything that's there about me but yeah I haven't really told her that I've felt so alone in my childhood and growing up that it's pretty much become my normal. Until last year , I had deep seated pain in my chest, it was like agony for the lack of better word. I used to be in constant emotional turmoil because of everything in my life. My mom, her addictions, my lack of a father figure and I used to feel so alone, so lonely thank God aunt Rose appointed a housekeeper otherwise I would've gone crazy. I've always thought that it was because I kept too much inside, expressed too little but I can't vocalise my feelings. I simply can't, I've never done it in my entire life and I suddenly can't do that now. Belly has always assured me that I can talk to her about anything and everything and I trust her enough to talk my "issues" but I simply don't know how. God how do people even do therapy. I would combust in that room. But lately I don't feel anything, I feel numb. It reminds me of how my mom used to be when I was growing up. I don't think people notice these kinds of things when they're not paying enough attention or when they don't know the other person. To any other person he /she might seem like any other person but to the person who knows them well though, who actually looks beyond , they would know , they would see that on the inside, they're all shriveled up, ugly, lacking life. I've gone through the painful process of looking at myself in the mirror and seeing all the ugly things that are hidden beneath my green eyes , brunette hair and golden skin. It was as if I lacked a .... Soul, like I was dead inside.And I had to go through all this bullshit because of the stupid essay that I'm supposed to submit by Friday. Today's Tuesday.